GIFT  OF 


1 


0  --ti^  o(r<^ 


ThH 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2007  with  funding  from 
IVItcrosoft  Corporation  / 


http://www.archive.org/details/crowsnestotherpoOOnichrich 


The  Crows  Nest 

ana    Other  ^oems 


FLORENCE  EMILY  NICHOLSON 


|(^AI;TIetV£RIWJp 


RICHARD   G.   BADGER 

THE   GORHAM   PRESS 

BOSTON 


COPYRIGHT   1912   BY  FLORENCE   EMILY  NICHOLSON 

All  Rights  Reserved 


THE  GORHAM  PRESS,  BOSTON,  U,  S.  A. 


TO  THE   MEMORY  OF   MY   BELOVED    MOTHER 

THIS    LITTLE  VOLUME    IS 

DEDICATED 


241595 


How  can  I  limn  thee,  how  the  least  devise 
To  paint  the  beauty  that  did  dwell  in  theef 
I  falter  with  my  trembling  hands  unfree, 
Unsure;  to  fail  a  hair's  breadth  but  implies 
To  miss  the  radiance  of  lips  and  eyes — 
The  soul  where  blossomed  fair  and  fruitfully 
The  sweet  beatitudes,  the  charity, 
The  love  and  hope  which  over  death  can  rise. 
That  dear  companionship  in  which  I  grew. 
Could  I  portray,  what  gems  would  I  compose — 
Yet  past  belief,  as  one  who  paints  the  view 
Of  sunset  splendour,  gold  and  burning  rose, 
On  some  rare  eve,  yet  none  will  think  it  true, 
Though  he  attempt  but  part  of  what  he  knows! 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

SONNET  DEDICATORY 

4 

The  Crow's  Nest 

9 

Via  Longa 

12 

The  Scholars 

17 

The  Isles  of  the  Blest 

18 

To  Demeter 

20 

To  the  Nuns  of  Sopwell 

24 

Butterflies 

29 

The  Katy-Dids 

31 

I  Pass  the  Beggars  All  by  Each  Day 

32 

The  Birthright 

34 

Titles  and  Heads 

36 

Old  Kate 

38 

Unfulfilment 

41 

Sleep 

42 

Midnight 

43 

After 

44 

Rest  or  Quest? 

45 

Baby  Song 

46 

Spring  Song 

48 

Sesame 

49 

My  Mother 

50 

To  My  Mother 

52 

0  What  of  Thine  Eye 

53 

The  Cathedral 

57 

The  Magic  Ring 

61 

Misfits 

62 

Paraphrased  from  Victor  Hugo 

63 

The  Entomologist 

64 

The  Nectar  of  Life 

67 

A  Little  Child  Sat  on  My  Knee 

68 

To  the  Rook 

69 

To  a  Roman  Latch-Key 

70 

Affinity 

71 

Love's  Magic 

74 

To  My  Sweetheart 

76 

If  I  Could  Choose 

78 

I  Know  My  Love  is  True 

79 

Penumbra 

81 

To  My  Sweetheart 

82 

Only  One 

84 

SONNETS:— 

Proscrastination 

85 

Forget-me-nots 

86 

Christmas  Sonnet 

87 

To  the  Men  who  Proclaimed  the  Republic 

of  Portugal,  Oct.  4,  1910 

88 

No  Window  Tax 

89 

A  Noble  Lord  Set  Sail 

90 

Discordia 

91 

From  My  Window 

92 

The  Poet's  Lamp 

93 

To  Keats 

94 

To  Robert  Browning 

95 

To  Shakespeare 

96 

The  Unremembered  Bards 

97 

Within  a  Mountain  Valley 

98 

The  Spider 

99 

I  Open  Doors  and  Doors 

100 

Immortalitas 

101 

The  Voyager 

102 

Would  I  Return  f 

103 

The  Over-Plus 

104 

Twilight 

105 

On  the  Death  of  Dear  Friends 

106 

The  Quest 

107 

A  Haunting  Vision 

108 

The  Lilt 

109 

Open  Windows 

110 

Memory 

111 

My  Childhood  Home 

112 

Death 

113 

To  the  Skylarks 

114 

Fate 

115 

MICHAEL  MORE 

116 

The  Crows  Nest 

and  Other  Poems 


THE  CROW'S  NEST 

Over  the  wondrous  siren  deep 
I  sail  with  never  a  time  for  sleep; 
I  hear  the  winds  in  the  rigging  howl; 
I  see  in  the  West  the  tempest  scowl; 
But  I  trust  my  soul  may  the  vigil  keep! 

''Still  awake?"  I  cry, 

And  the  loud  reply: 
** All's  well!"  from  the  crow's  nest. 

Over  the  oily,  satin  sea. 
When  the  zephyrs  blow  caressingly, 
On  the  flowing  lights  is  a  copper  sheen. 
And  the  white  clouds  drift  on  the  hyaline, — 
'Tis  a  fairy  ship  on  a  painted  sea! 
"  'Tis  a  dream!"  I  cry, 
And  the  soft  reply : 
*' All's  well!"  from  the  crow's  nest. 

In  the  waning  day,  when  the  sun  drops  low, 
And  the  West  is  filled  with  a  yellow  glow, 
And  a  flaming  path  of  molten  gold 
Is  traced  o'er  the  blue  to  my  good  ship's  hold. 
And  the  low  clouds  look  like  a  city  so: 
''  'Tis  the  bourne!"  I  cry. 
And  the  glad  reply: 
''All's  well!"  from  the  crow's  nest. 

When  the  rosy-red  rhododendron  sky 

Is  a  flowery  June  where  my  dream-lands  lie, 

And  the  lilac  sea  is  a  shimmering  mass 

With  the  pink  petals  strewn  on  its  liquid  glass. 

Then  I  shout  with  joy  as  I  look  on  high: 

"  'Tis  a  bonny  sky!" 

And  the  same  reply: 
"All's  well!"  from  the  crow's  nest. 

9 


•th-T  -x: 


When  the  twilight  grays  all  the  fading  bloom, 
And  the  slate  sea  takes  on  the  growing  gloom, 
When  the  blinding  darkness  enshadows  all, 
And  the  black  deep  heaves   'neath  its  funeral 

pall, 
And  the  spectral  thing  would  my  barque  entomb, 
Then  I  cry  with  fear ; 
But  the  answer  clear: 
*' All's  well!"  from  the  crow's  nest. 

But  the  stars  come  out  in  the  ebony  night, 
And  they  sprinkle  the  waves  with  diamonds 

bright ; 
Or  the  moon  swims  clear  in  the  fleecy  snow 
Of  the  gossamer  clouds  as  they  melt  and  go, 
And  she  spills  a  stream  of  her  dancing  light. 
''Still  awake  up  there?" 
And  the  answer  fair : 
*' All's  well!"  from  the  crow's  nest. 

When  the  fog  comes  up  for  the  wild-rose  dawn, 
In  a  thick  white  shroud  o'er  the  waters  drawn, 
And  my  garments  wet  like  a  heavy  dew. 
With  never  a  bit  of  the  sea  in  view, 
And  I  fear  for  my  ship,  should  she  travel  on, 

"Shall  we  stop?"  I  cry. 

But  the  same  reply: 
"All's  well!"  from  the  crow's  nest. 

When  the  wind-swept  waves  rise  to  mountains 

high, 
And  my  ship  dips  low,  or  would  scrape  the  sky. 
When  she  groans  and  creaks  as  she  feels  the 

sway, 
And  my  face  is  bathed  in  the  cold  salt  spray. 
Then  I  shout  aloud,  "We  are  doomed  to  die! 

10 


''What's  the  user'  I  cry, 
But  the  strong  reply : 
"All's  well!"  from  the  crow's  nest. 

I  found  myself  on  this  phantom  ship. 
I  know  not  the  maker,  nor  who  let  slip 
Her  hawsers  tied  to  some  mooring  far, 
No  port  more  near  than  the  evening  star. 
Straight  ahead  the  same  let  her  good  keel  skip ! 

''Keep  awake,"  I  cry. 

And  the  quick  reply : 
"All's  well!"  from  the  crow's  nest. 

0  I  love  the  chance  that  did  fall  to  me. 

So  to  sail  away  on  this  changing  sea. 

And  I  love  the  sun  on  the  twinkling  deep, 

Or  the  wind-wild  waves  when  my  deck  they 

sweep, 
Sure  no  derelict  will  she  ever  be! 
"Keep  a  watch,"  I  say. 
And  the  answer:  "Yea,** 
"All's  well!"  from  the  crow's  nest. 

Is  a  port  ahead  o  'er  the  heaving  main. 
With  no  rows  of  lights  in  the  harbour  plain? 
With  a  wind-red  face,  shall  I  find  it  lies 
Farther  out  and  beyond  those  receding  skies? 
So  Columbus  hoped,  and  they  called  it  vain! 

' '  Speed  away ! "  I  cry. 

And  the  sure  reply: 
"All's  well!"  from  the  crow's  nest. 


11 


VIA  LONGA 

On  a  sultry  morn 
As  I  strayed  forlorn, 
From  the  dust  and  the  lust, 
From  the  toil  and  the  spoil, 
From  the  city's  heat 
And  the  endless  beat 
Of  the  many  feet 
As  they  tramp  the  street. 
As  I  strayed  and  strayed, 
With  my  soul  dismayed 
I  chanced  on  a  cool  retreat. 

'Twas  a  country  road 
That  did  ease  my  load. 
And  my  heart  grew  gay 
With  the  breath  of  day, 
With  the  scent  of  hay, 
In  the  new-mown  fields, 
And  the  bright  array 
Of  the  sweet  bouquet 
That  the  Summer  yields. 
So  I  lay  me  down, 
Far  away  from  town. 
In  a  grassy  bed 
Where  the  poppies  red 
For  my  couch  had  spread 
An  embroidered  silken  gown. 
Oh!  the  sky  overhead. 
Where  the  white  clouds  sped 
In  the  gentle  westerly  breeze, 
Was  as  blue  as  blue 
With  a  violet  hue 
Of  the  tranquil  tropic  seas. 
And  the  shade  of  trees 

12 


On  the  waving  grass, 

And  the  hum  of  bees 

As  they  come  and  pass, 

Filled  my  frame  with  blissful  ease. 

So  from  swoon  to  swoon, 

In  the  heart  of  noon, 

I  fell  into  deathlike  sleep. 

Then  my  soul  did  peep 

From  the  barred  keep 

Of  its  prison  stealthily, — 

'Twas  a  loosened  bar — 

Then  out  afar 

I  fled  so  silently. 

Over  brake  and  brier. 

Through  the  mud  and  mire. 

With  a  mad  desire. 

And  my  zeal  afire 

To  find  some  untrod  way, 

''We  have  all  gone  wrong," 

Was  my  endless  song, 

''And  I  hate  the  great  white  road. 

Oh,  I  hate  to  plod  from  day  to  day 

And  to  carry  the  heavy  load ! 

There's  a  shorter  cut 

Than  the  worn  old  rut, 

There's  a  fresher,  newer  way.'* 

So  I  ran  and  flew 

Till  the  Summer  dew 

And  the  twilight  came  apace; 

Till  my  feet  were  sore. 

Nor  could  travel  more. 

For  it  was  a  thorny  place. 

Then  the  night  came  on. 

And  my  hope  was  gone, 

For  the  night  was  black, 


13 


And  I  lost  all  track 

How  to  travel  back; 

So  I  laid  me  down  to  die. 

Then  a  voice  as  sweet 

Did  my  soul  entreat, 

As  sweet  as  a  lullaby, 

Or  a  lark  in  the  deep  June  sky : 

"Dear  love,  you  have  travelled  far, 

But  in  a  circle,  sweet. 

Shall  I  tell  you  where  you  are? 

The  road  is  at  your  feet. 

But  you  might  have  perished,  dear. 

There  are  marshes  where  the  lilies  grow, 

And  quicksands  where  the  rivers  flow, 

And  many  a  place  there  is  to  fear 

Amid  the  enticing  green." 

*'But  the  road  was  so  dreary 

And  I  was  so  weary, 

When  never  the  end  is  seen," 

I  said  as  I  heaved  a  sigh. 

Then  she  answered:   ''I'll  tell  you  why. 

There  is  many  a  curve 

Round  the  hills  which  serve 

To  block  the  distant  view. 

There  are  many  curves. 

But  they  fall  in  line 

From  the  top  of  the  hill, 

If  you  will  but  climb. 

And  the  breeze  is  wine 

To  your  shattered  nerves ; 

So  come  with  me  if  you  will. ' ' 

And  I  climbed,  and  lo ! 
The  road  stretched  white. 
Far,  far,  to  the  glow 

14 


At  the  uttermost  verge, 

Where  a  shimmering  line 

Of  the  dawning  light 

Ran  gold  where  the  sun  would  emerge — 

Red  gold  in  the  violet  night. 

Then  her  voice  was  low 

As  the  murmur  of  streams, 

Or  a  faint  far  chime 

In  the  twilight  time, 

When  the  West  still  faintly  gleams: 

* '  Oh !  they  think  they  know — 

Those  who  turn  away 

From  the  road  the  ages  go; 

But  they  circle  back 

If  they  can  essay 

To  reach  the  beaten  track. 

And  still  the  bigot  has  his  'nay' 

To  which  the  weakling  joins  his  *yea;' 

But  the  one  on  the  hill-top  knows.'' 

Then  I  turned  to  her,  and  lo ! 

In  her  face  was  a  wondrous  glow, 

And  her  cheeks  like  the  rose, 

And  her  hair  like  the  shade 

That  the  moonbeams  throw 

When  they  flood  a  fairy  glade ; 

And  her  eyes  like  the  sea 

In  the  ebony  night 

When  its  mirror  is  sprinkled  with  stars; 

And  her  garments  white, 

In  the  growing  light 

Had  a  glint  like  the  red  of  Mars. 

Then  a  blue  mist  shrouded  her  light  from  me, 
A  mist  in  the  early  dawn. 
Yet  there  floated  to  me. 


15 


As  she  glided  away, 
Such  a  note  as  the  minstrelsy 
Of  the  birds  at  break  of  day : 
"If  you  wish  to  meet  the  dawn, 
Go  on,  and  on,  and  on; 
Do  not  stop,  nor  stray 
From  the  great  white  way, 
If  you  wish  to  meet  the  dawn." 


16 


THE  SCHOLARS 

We  are  the  gleaners,  we, 

And  the  scattered  grain  is  ours. 

We  came  in  the  dawn  where  the  reapers  be, 

And  we  stay  for  the  sunset  flowers. 

0  the  buxom  day  is  a  lavish  one! 

But  the  reapers  are  reaping  for  pay. 

They  will  have  poor  wheat  when  the  day  is  done, 

But  many  a  sheaf  for  display. 

For  the  noon  is  long,  and  to  sleep  is  sweet. 
And  after  the  wine  there  is  time  to  reap, 
And  'tis  only  the  gleaners  who  see  the  cheat, 
When  the  pile  is  made  in  a  showy  heap. 

But  all  day  long  we  have  picked  the  best 
Till  the  crystal  bell  in  the  distance  tolled. 
When  we  bend  our  steps  to  the  burning  West, 
And  our  armfuls  turn  into  gleaming  gold. 

A  touch  of  flame  to  the  turban  red. 

And    each    way-worn    gown    to    enchantment 

yields ; 
AVhile  all  of  the  rest  have  long  since  fled, 
And  we  are  alone  in  the  yellow  fields. 


17 


THE  ISLES  OF  THE  BLEST 

Calm  seas,  blue  seas, 
Waft  me  so  drowsily  on,  far ; 

Soft  breeze,  sweet  breeze, 
Lullingly  blow  me  where  Junes  are, 
Gardens  where  apples  of  gold  glow, 
Lilies  and  roses  of  red  grow; 

Tranquilly  blow,  blow. 

Lullabies  low,  low. 
Sleepily  so,  to  the  Isles  of  the  Blest. 

Day-tide,  on,  wide. 
Over  the  changeable  green-blue; 

Dawn-dyed,  eve-dyed, 
Tinet  is  the  sea  with  the  sky  hue. 
Pink  are  the  dawns,  and  the  West  glows, 
Golden,  vermillion,  and  rich  rose; 

Banners  so  gay  play 

Over  the  sea-way. 
Splendidly  ride  we  to  Isles  of  the  Blest. 

White  sails,  puffed  sails, 
Brimming  with  breezes  of  down  blown ; 

Hushed  gales,  soft  gales, 
Zephyrs  with  spices  are  sweet  sown, 
Whispering  songs  that  they  waft  far, 
Blowing  where  islands  of  dawn  are; 

Southerly  ride  we, 

Peacefully  glide  we, 
Out  to  the  beautiful  Isles  of  the  Blest. 

Moonlight,  full  bright; 
Moveless,  the  shadowy  sail  gleams 

Soft  white,  pearl  white. 
Splashed  with  the  silvery  moonbeams. 

18 


Silvery  grey  with  a  faint  green 
Tipped  are  the  ripples  with  moon-sheen; 
Shadowy  night-time 
Shimmers  with  moonshine — 
Glimmers  the  way  to  the  Isles  of  the  Blest. 

Mild  beams,  wan  gleams, 
Floating  are  we  on  the  moonlight; 

All  seems  pale  dreams, 
Waking  and  sleep  are  the  same,  quite; 
Echoes  we  hear  as  of  harp  strings ; 
Flashing  of  oars  as  we  pass  brings 

Slumberous  dip,  drip; 

Drifting  we  slip,  slip, 
Into  sweet  dreams  of  the  Isles  of  the  Blest. 

Calm  whiles,  sweet  whiles, 
Nearing  the  Isles  in  a  dream-sleep ; 

Bright  Isles,  fair  Isles, 
Scattered  like  stars  on  the  wine-deep; 
Oh,  what  a  sight  when  the  dawn  breaks. 
Glistening  view  when  the  soul  wakes! 

Jewelled,  they  all  rise. 

Tinted  with  dawn-skies. 
Hail!  to  the  marvellous  Isles  of  the  Blest. 


19 


TO  DEMETER* 

Do  you  still  dream  of  her, 
You  of  the  sad  uplifted  eyes, 
AVhose  bliss  the  fates  defer? 
Long  seated  on  that  rock-hewn  chair, 
What  do  you  still  await, 
0  sad  Demeter!  hoping  that 
She  yet  may  come,  though  late? 
Afar  and  lone  you  are,  nor  may  arise 
The  marble  cliffs  and  meadows  fair, 
The  hills  and  fragrant  air, 
The  shrine  where  once  you  sat 
When,  far  beneath  you,  rolled  the  sea 
That  danced  with  laughing  wave 
And  garlanded  with  foam 
The  level  sands,  the  rocks,  in  jollity, 
When  Hades  to  your  longing  gave  ■ 

The  sweetest  respite,  bringing  home 
Your  dear  Persephone. 

Ah,  sad  were  you  on  that  far  day. 

When,  there  amid  the  meadows  strewn 

With  lily,  iris,  crimson  rose. 

And  purple  hyacinth,  at  play 

With  maidens,  all  with  joy  atune. 

She  bent  to  pluck  the  sweet  that  grows 

For  mortal  bane. 
How  pierced  your  heart  that  shrill,  sad  cry ! 
And  she  was  gone,  nor  knew  you  where. 

Nor  came  to  you  again 
All  darkly  clad,  you  searched  the  earth  so  fair, 

Wide-wayed  and  far, 

*The  seated  Demeter,  now  in  the  British  Museum, 
was  found  in  1857  by  Sir  Charles  Newton,  near  Cnidos, 
in  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  shrine  overlooking  the 
Mediterranean. 

20 


Where  strangers  are, 

In  duress  dire, 
With  torches,  in  your  hands,  afire. 
And  speechless  sat  in  many  halls, 
Sweet-echoing:,  nor  tasted  wine  nor  meat, 
So  deep  was  your  mute  agony; 
And  pitiful  would  strangers  be 
Who  knew  the  sweet  Persephone 
Had  gone  where  no  foot  falls. 
So  soft  the  step  of  shades. 
And  you,  all  wasted  with  your  grief, 
Did  doom  the  earth  to  blight, 
And  sad  the  year  without  a  leaf, 
Or  barley  blade,  when  crooked  ploughs  in  vain 
Turned  the  fresh  earth  to  light. 
No  spears  pushed  off  the  powdered  earth, 
Nor  hung  with  bended  ears. 
Aye,  terrible  and  long  the  years 

You  doomed  to  dearth, 

A  blighting  bane. 
Then  Iris  came,  all  wind-wild  sped, 
Swift-fanned  through  fragrant  space, 
Entreated  much  and  kindly  plead 
That  you  would  bend  with  grace 
To  favour  earth  with  bloom; 

But  all  in  vain ! 
Came  all  the  blessed  gods,  each  one. 

To  light  the  gloom. 
And  offered  shining  gifts  to  you; 
But  still  you  did  withhold, 
For  that  dear  face  were  boon  to  view, 
Beyond  the  meed  of  gold. 

So  turned  you  from  their  shining  light. 
For  you  the  day  was  night. 
Till  that  far-seeing  one 

21 


Who  on  Olympus  dwelt, 

More  glowing  than  the  sun 

That  ever  mortal  felt, 

Did  with  his  softest  word  persuade, 

And  Hades  then  a  promise  made 

To  bring  her  to  your  sight. 

0  happiness!   What  gracious  boon! 

She  would  be  with  you  soon. 

When  fields  were  flowery  sweet, 

0  joy !   dispelling  gloom, 

And  bubbling  o'er  the  brim, 
She  leapt  to  you  along  the  meadow  grass, 

All  high  with  bloom, 
And  held  her  garment,  setting  free 
The  movement  of  her  twinkling  feet 

And  ankles  slim, 
Scarce  touching  sward  as  she  did  pass, 
Her  crocus-yellow  curls  did  dance 
And  with  the  sunbeams  glance. 
With  outstretched  arms,  how  she  did  greet 
Your  smiling  lips  with  kisses  sweet 

And  happy  words! 
Her  taste  of  death  caused  you  a  fear, 
Yet  she  was  yours  two-thirds 

Of  all  the  year. 

But  you  are  far  removed  from  there, — 

Aye,  far  indeed! 
Blank  walls  encompass  you  about. 

No  pleasant  mead 
For  you,  nor  can  look  out 
For  her  you  long  to  see. 
Around  you,  faces  but  a  semblance  wear, 
Rock-bound  in  nameless  dreams. 
And  mutilated  forms  whose  meaning  seems 

A  blank  to  you  and  me. 


Do  you  still  dream  of  your  Persephone, 

Who  still  is  young  and  fair, 

Who  never  comes  again  to  you ; 

Of  Spring  deferred  and  far 

As  your  fair  lands  and  temples  are? 

A  shadow  of  a  memory! 

Your  world  departed,  too, 

Both  men  and  gods,  all  gone. 

Long,  long  withdrawn. 
From  out  this  world  of  seasons  made, 
To  shadows  in  the  realms  of  shade'. 


23 


TO  THE  NUNS  OF  SOPWELL* 

0  pure,  devout,  but  selfish,  souls 
Who  did  your  heaven  seek 

By  still  denying  earth. 

As  trembling  votarists  and  meek, 

Whom  fear  controlls. 

Of  nectar  dearth, 
You  sopped  your  dry  crust 

In  the  holy  well, 

And  closed  your  doors. 

1  see  those  faces  doomed  to  dust, 

So  fair  and  sweet, 

With  hope  replete, 
And  burning  cheeks  that  tell 
A  pulsing  heart  for  purpose  high, 

That  joy  ignores. 

Not  knowing  why. 
What  springing  step!     How  looked  the  white 
And  pink  beneath  that  veil  of  night, 
When  you  first  entered  there, 
And  heard  the  bolts  and  locks. 
Where  never  lover  knocks; 
Nor  need  that  you  be  fair.  ! 

And  then  the  long,  long  days ! 
The  fastings,  and  the  prayer 

So  often  said,  \ 

The  meaning  fled. 
The  vigils  in  the  night 
When  chastisement  essays 
To  make  the  spirit  shine 
And  save  your  souls  from  sin, 
That  you  might  stand  in  line, 
With  hope  to  enter  in 

♦SopweU  Nunnery  was  founded  circa  1140,  A.  D.,  in 
the  outskirts  of  St.  Albans,  England.  The  ruins  are 
still  standing. 

24 


Some  far-off  pearly  gate, 
And  walk  some  golden  street. 
And  all  the  joys  of  life's  estate, 
The  happy  love  that  makes  it  sweet, 

Forever  were  denied. 
That  you  might  be  the  bride 
Of  Christ — but  not  the  one 
Who  spoke  from  mountain  height, 
Who  out  of  doors,  in  air  and  sun 

Did  dwell  in  Palestine. 
How  cold  you  were,  austere  and  lone. 
All  sepulchred  in  grey, 
Your  memories  bleached  white, 
As  grass  beneath  a  stone. 
Your  visions  barren  lay 
As  landscapes  of  the  moon, 
While  kneeling  at  your  shrine 
You  strung  your  rosaries  with  muttered  tune, 
And  bought  your  heaven  in  a  poke, 

With  earth  for  pay. 
Ah !  did  your  purchase  kick  the  beam 

With  ringing  stroke? 

O  who  can  say! 
Your  heaven,  where,  0  where ! 
0  worlds  on  worlds,  an  endless  chain ! 
O  time  and  tide  that  ceaseless  flow! 
How  little  kenned!     How  very  vain 
To  say  we  know  what  we  but  dream. 
Or  but  another's  dream  rehearse. 
When  in  this  boundless  universe 
Not  e'en  this  little  earth  we  know, 
Nor  guess  her  secrets  hidden  there ! 

0  pure  and  foolish  nuns! 
O  good  and  selfish  ones 

Of  bloodless  chastity 

25 


And  fictioned  sanctity, 
Denying  joy  for  empty  name ! 
Could  heaven  be  good  and  earth  be  bad, 
The  God  of  both  the  same  ? 
Could  you  know  sweetness  if  it  came  to  you. 
Long  chewing  bitter  herbs? 
0  luscious  joy  that  may  be  had 
By  living,  'spite  the  share  of  pain ! 
And  giving  joy  cannot  be  vain, 

Nor  the  relief  of  pain. 
But  you,  disdaining  meat,  your  due, 
Your  hunger  long  repressed ; 
No  appetite  for  you  disturbs 

An  apathy  unblessed, 

Unable  to  be  fed. 

Because  a  life  you  led 

Of  long  despising  food. 

0  happy  earth,  and  changing  year, 

Where  pain  and  grief  are  mixed  with  good! 

The  shining  eyes  of  children  in  the  doors 

Of  cottages  in  row. 

Their  faces  all  aglow, 
Their  laugh  so  full  of  cheer, 
Their  gambol  in  the  lanes; 
The  skylark  singing  as  he  soars 

Above  the  meadow  lands ; 
The  matrons  -with  the  busy  hands 

That  many  blessings  yield; 
The  ploughman  with  his  hope  for  gains 
From  off  the  red-brown  field. 
Where  lapwings  rise,  a  cloud  of  shade  and  snow ; 
And  cattle  wading  to  the  knee 

In  buttercups  and  grass; 
The  call  of  milkmen  ringing  free 
As  down  the  lanes  they  pass; 

26 


The  woods  all  mauve  with  tall  bluebells; 
And  apple  blossoms  in  the  garden  plots, 
With  lilac  scenting  all  the  air; 
And  every  bush  and  tree  holds  some  bird's  nest ; 
And  'long  the  roads  are  blue  forget-me-nots ; 
Chrysalides  aburst  with  butterflies 

That  shimmer  everywhere, 
And  loud  the  flute  notes  from  the  dells, 
Of  rhapsodies  the  loveliest — 
0  noisy  earth,  what  pleasure  lies 

In  all  thy  varied  tune, 
In  hum  of  bee  and  changing  call, 
From  cricket  to  the  lowing  kine! 
Too  soon  the  silence  for  us  all. 
Too  soon  the  dark,  too  soon ! 

0  red  ripe  earth! 

0  warm  rich  blood, 
Pulsing  with  Spring  and  song 

In  joyous  flood! 
To  you  denied,  how  long! 
So  long  you  scarcely  marked  the  dearth. 
Or  knew  the  sun  could  shine. 

Nor  were  you  thrilled, 
Save  with  one  hope,  imagined  sweet; 
As  one  who  in  assembly  great. 
Should  farther  seek  a  seat, 
And,  missing  it,  returns 
To  find  what  he  refused  is  filled; 
Or  one,  who  seeking  flowers,  burns 
To  find  some  other  than  he  sees, 
And,  plucking  not,  with  hope  elate, 
Is  stopped  with  empty  hands,  dismayed, 
When  he  has  met  the  night. 

0  foolish  virgins,  with  your  oil-less  lamps, 
Who  dwelt  within  your  greys  and  damps  I 

27 


How  could  you  hope  for  joy 

You  still  might  get  without  alloy? 

How  could  it  be, 
AVith  all  your  joy  decayed? 
0  happy  toil  and  human  frailty, 
And  pains  no  need  to  name! 
These  are  the  wax  to  feed  the  candle  flame. 
The  stretch  of  earth,  for  exercise. 
We  need  while  we  are  here  the  whiles ; 
Not  prison  floors,  nor  abbey  aisles. 

And  now  your  sacred  tenement 
Has  for  a  roof  the  azure  skies ; 
Your  prison  walls  are  open  now. 
And  in  and  out  the  wild  bird  flies. 
Your  windows,  widely  rent, 

Let  in  the  bees, 

And  fragrant  breeze; 
And  all  the  walls  are  ivy-grown,  ' 

And  on  their  tops  are  flowers  blown. 

And  waving  grass. 
For  all  must  still  to  Nature  bow — 
She  opens  at  the  top  when  doors  are  barred. 
No  prison  bars  has  she, 
For  they  are  made  by  man ; 
Despite  his  well  constructed  plan. 
She,  in  some  sweet  futurity. 
Remakes  what  he  has  marred. 

0  sad  lost  days  and  lives, 

And  pleasure  that  survives ! 

Perchance  the  fragrant  kine 

That  'round  your  crumbling  temple  pass, 

Your  desecrated  shrine. 
Are  wiser  far,  as  moving  slow, 
They  munch  the  daisies,  as  they  grow, 
And  buttercups  with  daily  grass. 

28 


BUTTERFLIES 

Beautiful  butterflies,  all  in  a  row, 
In  a  curio  window  were  put  up  for  show; 
When  a  poet  was  passing  the  shop  one  day, 
And  he  stopped    by    the  window  to  note  the 

array. 
There  were  scarlet,  and  amber,  and  sapphire 

blue, 
There  were  purple,  and  yellow,  and  orange  too, 
With  such  wonderful  blendings  of  bronze  and 

green, 
Such  marvels  of  coloring  rarely  are  seen. 
With  a  pin  in  each  heart  they  were  rigid  and 

cold. 
They  were  mummies  of  poesy,  legends  untold, 
Which  no  purchaser  knew  as  he  laid  down  the 

gold; 
But  they  whispered  the  poet  a  wonderful  dream : 
' '  We  flew  with  the  breezes  in  sunlight  agleam ; 
We  were  cut  from  the  rainbow  and  sprinkled 

like  showers 
O'er    meadows   of   clover   and   fields   of   wild 

flowers ; 
We  fluttered  on  orchards  of  pink  and  white 

bloom ; 
On  breezes  which  wafted  the  mingled  perfume 
Of  sweet  country  gardens,  of  lilacs  in  plume. 
Of  violets  cold  in  the  fresh  dewy  morn, 
Of  lavender,  cowslip,  and  yellowing  corn ; 
0  'er  sweeps  of  lush  grasses  with  sunlight  aglow. 
All  powdered  with  daisies  like  new-fallen  snow ; 
We  flashed  a  gold  sunbeam  o'er  heather-blown 

hills. 
O'er  buttercups  dancing  along  the  bright  rills. 

29 


Then  deep  into  shadows  where,  quiet  and  cool, 
The  ferns  and  rich  mosses  embroider  a  pool, 
Where  pale  virgin  lilies  bend  over  with  grace 
To  see  in  the  mirror  each  spotless  white  face, 
We  poised  on  their  petals  as  prisms  of  light. 
And  flashed  in  the  water  as  stars  in  the  night. 
On  breezes-  of  dawn  when  Aurora  was  rose 
And  saffron  in  splendour,  and  all    the    mead 

glows, 
In  tapestried  velvets  we  floated  on  air, 
On  incense  of  blossoms,   the  earth's  morning 

prayer. 
Our  day  was  all  glory,  all  beauty  was  ours. 
We  basked  in  the  sunshine,  and  dined  on  the 

flowers. 
But  now  we  are  stark  and  mere  specimens  all, 
And  who  can,  who  sees  us,  these  visions  recall?" 

' '  'Tis  true,  * '  quoth  the  poet,  "  e  'en  so,  and  still 

worse 
When  I  catch  my  fine  fancies  and  pin  them  to 


30 


THE  KATY-DIDS 

Before  the  leaves  begin  to  turn, 
But  Autumn  hints  are  in  the  air, 
When  winds  among  the  branches  yearn, 
And  mellowness  is  everywhere. 
The  katy-dids  begin  to  sing, 
And  all  the  woods  begin  to  ring 
With  ''katy-did"  and  '' didn't/' 

When  dusky  grows  the  copse  and  glade, 
Before  the  stars  are  gleaming  bright. 
When  in  the  shadows  softly  laid, 
The  fire-flies  are  flashing  light, 
The  katy-dids  begin  to  sing 
An  endless,  endless  note  they  ring 
Of  ^'katy-did"  and  "didn't." 

We  sit  upon  the  porch  and  muse 
When  all  the  work  of  day  is  done. 
About  their  still  diverging  views. 
For  neither  yet  has  ever  won ; 

In  all  the  years  and  years  they  sing 
It  is  the  same  disputed  thing — 
Of  '^katy-did"  and  "didn't." 

And  so  do  we  dogmatic  prate 
With  yea  and  nay  of  things  unknown. 
The  why  and  whence  of  life's  estate. 
The  whither  of  the  spirits  flown; 
And  all  the  ages  ever  sing. 
But  never  final  answer  bring 

To  "katy-did"  and  "didn't." 


31 


I  PASS  THE  BEGGARS  ALL  BY  EACH  DAY 

I  pass  the  beggars  all  by  each  day, 

I,  of  the  empty  hands ; 
It  pains  me  deep,  when  they  feebly  pray ; 
I  see  them  haggard  and  sick  and  gray, 
And  lame,  and  drunken  forsooth; 
And  I  ask  myself  the  truth: 
If  you  were  a  duke  and  had  the  sway 

Of  so  many  beautiful  lands. 
Would  you  break  them  up  and  give  them  away, 

You  of  the  laden  hands? 

I  paused,  then  I  quickly  did  answer  me, 
I,  of  the  empty  hands: 

0  yes,  I  would  give  of  it  cheerfully, 

Of  hunger  and  cold  they  should  all  be  free. 
For  who  has  a  heritage 
That  is  his  beyond  his  wage? 
'Tis  only  a  little  would  do  for  me, 

I  need  not  many  lands; 

And  much  is  the  source  of  frivolity. 

Better  relieve  my  hands. 

And  what  would  I  want  of  a  coronet, 

I  who  have  busy  hands? 
None  bend  to  me  nor  have  ever  bent  yet ; 

1  would  hold  out  hands  for  their  swift  up-get. 
True  rank  but  implies 

What  you  are,  to  the  wise; 
The  savages  guage  it  by  spangles  and  jet, 

Decking  their  necks  and  hands, — 
So  do  the  civilized  savages  yet. 

They  who  boast  of  their  lands ; 

The  civilized  savage  whose  armament 

Would  buy  for  the  poor  their  lands ; 

32 


To  prepare  for  murder  the  gold  is  spent 
That  would  send  the  poor  with  a  glad  intent 
To  lands  that  are  rich  and  new, 
To  squalor  and  crime  adieu. 
Oh,  with  what  a  glory  would  wealth  be  blent, 

If  all  of  the  poor  had  lands, 
And  plenty  were  kept,  though  the  most  were  lent 
Out  of  the  greedy  hands ! 


33 


THE  BIRTHRIGHT 

I  passed  by  a  bevy  of  sweet  little  girls, 

As  rosy  as  peaches  they  were, 
With  dimples  and  ringlets  of  silken  soft  curls, 
And  playful  as  kittens  that  purr. 
0  what  a  happiness, 
They  are  so  glad ! 
Would  that  they  never  should 
Ever  be  sad. 
But  feast  upon  joy  evermore! 

But  sad  was  another,  so  sickly  and  pale, 

No  darling,  for  strangers  were  all. 
So  cold  in  her  tatters,  so  starved  and  so  frail. 
No  nest  for  a  nestling  so  small. 
Hard  is  the  world  for  her. 
Cold  from  the  start,  , 

Stunting  her  utterly,  ' 

Chilling  her  heart. 
And  old  in  her  playtime  is  she.  ; 

A  curse  to  such  parenthood,  curse  to  a  race 

Who  live  for  their  freedom  alone, 
Who  give  to  the  passions  the  principal  place, 
And  freedom  from  duty  condone. 
Curse  to  a  pleasure  whose 
Dregs  is  the  pain, 
Others  must  bear,  and  be 
Tinct  with  a  stain; 
The  birthright  of  children  they  sell. 

Aye,  pottage  it  is  for  which  children  must  pay. 
The  losers,  unasked,  when  it's  paid; 

'Tis  forced  from  the  innocent,  bartered  away. 
The  owner,  unknowing,  betrayed, 
Born  to  a  fate  which  so 

34  ^ 


Blinding  controls. 
Man  has  no  right  in  the 
Barter  of  souls, 
Save  damning  his  own,  if  he  choose. 

And  what  is  this  birthright  belongs  to  the  child  ? 

'Tis  health  unimpaired  and  complete ; 
The  much  decried  home  which  shall  be  undefiled, 
And  full  of  a  love  that  is  sweet ; 
Training  the  highest  shall 
Fit  him  to  live, 
Given  by  parents  who 
Lovingly  give, — 
'Tis  sum  of  all  crimes  to  steal  this. 

0  shame  to  the  sophists,  whom  time  will  refute, 

Who,  since  they  have  bitten  in  rot, 
Would  wrench  the  sweet  apple  tree  up  by  the 
root, 
And  all  that  is  good  they  would  blot ; 
Sham  are  they  utterly; 
White  is  still  white ; 
Black  shall  be  black  for  aye ; 
Waxes  the  light 
From  dawn ;  and  good  forever  is  good. 


TITLES  AND  HEADS 

Said  a  page  to  his  lord  who  was  writing  one  day 
With  a  hobble  and  jerk  at  a  miserable  lay: 
'*My  lord,  my  own  head  is  Apollo's  round  head, 
With  sweets  for  the  gods  it  ought  to  be  fed, 
But  yours  is  as  flat  as  a  board,"  he  said, 
"0  let  me  compose  your  lay!" 

And  the  lord  looked  up  with  a  watery  eye. 

With  half  a  rebuke  and  part  of  a  sigh. 

When  a  twinkle  he  caught  from  the  would-be 

bard, 
Who  would  shake  off  the  mask  and  the  slave 

disregard, — 
'*I  admit  to  your  sauciness,  it  is  quite  hard. 
Just  try  it  yourself  for  today. ' ' 

So  down  sat  the  page,  and  he  wrote,  and  he 

wrote. 
And  he  dazzled  the  lord  for  the  words  seemed 

to  float, 
Twas  music,  as  floats  on  a  moon-lighted  sea 
Where  Summer  is  always  and  storm  may  not  be ; 
The  lord  was  so  staggered  he  scarcely  could 

see: 

**0  that  is  enough  for  today!" 

And,  later,  the  duchesses  crowded  around. 
As  the  lord  read  the  poem  of  wonderful  sound. 
They  made  him  a  hero,  he  sailed  in  the  air, 
And  all  said  no  poet  with  him  could  compare, 
0  how  did  he  manage  to  make  it  so  fair! 
And  they  fondled  him  all  of  the  day. 

But  the  page  in  the  kitchen  was  dancing  with 
glee: 


"He'll  not  get  another, — ^no,  never,  from  me. 
He  would  drop,  should  I  tell,  with  a  thud,  and 

be  down; 
And  all  the  great  ladies  who  make  his  renown 
Would  turn  from  him  quickly  with  sneer  or  a 

frown ; 

T  have  him  in  thrall  from  today." 


37 


OLD  KATE 

*'And  so  old  Kate  is  dead,  old  Kate!" 
Sneered  Julia,  as  she  uttered  ''old,'* 
' '  Old  Kate !  with  all  her  golden  hair ; 
She  was  so  young!     Yet  not  too  late 
(Just  take  a  look!)  the  secret's  told. 

'*It  was  a  wig! — I  told  you  so — 
I  stood  beside  her  till  she  died; 
She's  not  so  comely,"  (pointing  there, 
You  see  the  door),  ''Go  in  and  know 
To  life,  but  not  to  death,  she  lied." 

I  stepped  within  the  charnel  room. 
One  window  tried  to  face  the  West, 
But  never  ray  of  sunlight  shone, 
For  dingy  walls  made  half  the  gloom. 
And  smoke  and  dirt  and  fog  the  rest. 

Below,  the  freight  yard,  grimy  black. 
With  puff,  chugg-chugg,  the  whole  day  long, 
And  all  the  night  the  creaking  groan 
Of  cars  and  engines  on  the  track, 
A  constant  moving,  tireless  throng. 

Poor  Kate,  for  many  weary  years. 

Had  climbed  the  long  and  half-lit  stairs, 

And  laid  her  tired  body  down 

Upon  her  bed  with  many  fears 

For  days  to  come,  and  faltering  prayers; 

And  visions  of  some  happy  time 
In  flowery  fields  and  sunlit  lanes, 
Far  out  of  any  thought  of  town, 
In  some  remote  and  Summer  clime, 
With  joy  and  love  for  cares  and  pains. 

38 


The  garden  of  her  soul  had  kept 
All  wrinkles  from  her  placid  face, 
Though  youth  she  never  had,  nor  play, 
Nor  any  rest,  save  when  she  slept 
Despite  the  cold  and  noisy  place. 

Yes,  she  was  vain,  but  'twas  for  love 
Of  something  good  to  come,  though  late. 
She  cheated  Time  with  gold  for  gray. 
Nor  ever  was  she  dreaming  of 
The  cause  of  Julia's  growing  hate. 

But  stealthy  Death  was  at  the  door, 
And  took  poor  Kate  before  the  blight 
Of  hopes  for  earthly  paradise. 
But  Julia  wished  to  take  still  more, 
And  waited  for  the  fading  light. 

She  waited  there  with  evil  glee. 

She  flung  the  wig  upon  the  floor. 

That  all  who  came  might  see  and  know; 

And  then  she  hid  quite  silently, 

And  listened  for  the  opening  door. 

But  Alice  entered,  timid  girl. 

Whom  Kate  had  helped,  a  friendless  child, 

Who  pitied  much  to  find  her  so, 

Replaced  the  wig  with  sunny  curl, 

And  bent  upon  her,  weeping  wild. 

Then  Julia  came  with  subtle  smile. 
*'0  don't  I  beg;  I  pray  you,  spare," 
Said  Alice,  catching  Julia's  arm; 
She  begged  that  I  would  guard  the  while, 
And  tip-toed  out  and  down  the  stair. 

39 


I  waited ;  then  she  came  with  flowers 
To  put  in  Katey's  hands  and  hair, 
Still  looking  round  for  fear  of  harm 
To  her  she  loved,  and  watched  the  hours 
In  that  lone  room  so  cold  and  bare. 


Then  in  the  dawn  came  one  so  dear, 
Who  never  had  his  love  betrayed : 
*'What,  dead?"  he  said,  '^it  cannot  be!'' 
I  led  him,  helpless,  to  the  bier ; 
He  wept  and  wept,  his  body  swayed. 


She  looked  so  young,  so  very  fair ! 
Then  Alice  came  and  took  his  hand, 
But  could  not  speak  her  sympathy ; 
For  her  no  irony  was  there, 
But  simple  creed  to  understand. 

We  buried  her  not  far  away ; 
And  how  she  got  it  no  one  knows, 
But  Julia  brought  a  lock  of  hair 
And  laid  it  in  his  hand  that  day : 
'Twas  gold,  but  fear  within  me  rose. 

He  bent  and  kissed  the  hand  that  gave, 
But  not  a  word  she  said  the  while ; 
She  turned  and  left  him  standing  there 
Beside  the  rounding,  new-made  grave. 
But  as  she  turned,  I  knew  her  smile. 


40 


UNFULFILMENT 

*'I  should  like  to  see  the  silver  sea,'* 

Said  a  little  waif  on  the  street, 

^'And  the  great  big  ships  that  they're  telling  me 

Do  make  the  sailors'  fleet; 

I  should  like  the  fields  and  the  honey-bee, 

And  the  flowers  that  are  so  sweet ; 

Oh,  how  I  should  like  to  pick  from  the  tree 

The  fruits  that  I'd  like  to  eat!'' 

#  *  jjs  *  >lc  * 

But  a  cheerless  spot 

In  the  pauper's  lot 
By  a  dusty  and  noisy  street. 
Just  such  as  he  daily  knew, 
Holds  his  aged  hands  and  feet 
That  never  strayed  where  the  flowers  grew 
Nor  plucked  the  fruits  that  were  sweet. 
Does  it  hold  his  dream-lands  too  ? 


41 


SLEEP 

Sleeping  far  are  the  shadowy  seas  and  moun- 
tains— 
Slumber  sweet,  for  the  winds  lie  still, 
Still,  so  still,  not  a  leaf  to  a  leaf  may  whisper ; 
Darkness  sifts  over  vale  and  hill. 
Bees  are  hived,  and  the  birds  have  folded  their 
pinions, 
Songless  they,  while  the  earth  is  chill. 
Lambs  lie  curled  that  frisked  in  the  daisied 
meadows. 
Stopped  is  the  whir  of  the  water  mill. 
Petals  closed  as  hands  that  are  pressed  for  a 
blessing, 
Flowers  sleep  while  the  dews  distil; 
Cradled  are  babes  that  played  in  the  fragrant 
gardens. 
Prattle  hushed  that  the  day  did  fill. 
Farmers'  carts  and  the  sweeping  swish  of  the 
sickle, 
Silent  they,  at  the  sleep-god's  will. 
Hushed, — like  a  room  where  the  dead  lie  sleep- 
ing, 
Night  steps  softly,  and  all  is  still. 


42 


MIDNIGHT 

The  moon  is  set,  and  the  Pleiades ; 

Keep  still  my  heart  and  sleep ! 
No  sound,  no  hint  of  a  breath  of  breeze 

Does  o'er  my  forehead  creep. 

To  sleep  fall  all  when  the  darkness  bids, 
•    But  I  still  lie  awake. 
Come,  drowsy  one,  come  and  press  my  lids, 
My  busy  thoughts,  come,  take! 

'Tis  midnight  now  and  the  owl  is  still 
That  perched  against  the  moon. 

O  hark,  0  list,  to  what  seems  to  fill 
The  night  with  solemn  tune ! 

The  bells,  the  knell,  'tis  the  abbey  chime  I 

Ah,  they  within  the  crypt 
Once  heard  that  mark  of  the  flight  of  time, 

From  whom  all  time  has  slipt! 


4H 


AFTER 

After  naked  Winter, 

Leaves  and  blushing  blooms ; 
After  tossing  voyage, 

Sweet  the  harbour  looms ; 

After  cloud  and  tempest, 
Crimson  glows  the  sky; 

After  night  and  darkness, 
Morning  hovers  nigh; 

After  work  and  turmoil. 
Comes  refreshing  sleep; 

After  toil  the  sowers 
Golden  harvests  reap; 

After  pain  and  sorrow. 
Comes  a  day  of  peace ; 

After  let  and  hindrance. 
Comes  a  sweet  release ; 

After  hate  and  discord, 
Brothers  clasp  the  hand; 

After  distant  travel, 
Home,  the  happy  land ; 

After  death  what  cometh? 

After  death,  aye,  what  ? 
If  IVe  done  my  utmost. 

Then  it  matters  not. 


44 


REST,  OR  QUEST? 

0  balmy  breeze 

On  placid  seas, 

So  calm  at  last 

When  storms  are  past! 

We  drift  afar 

Where  gates  ajar 

Invite  to  pass 

O'er  bays  of  glass 

To  golden  sands 

In  sunny  lands. 

To  rest  for  aye  at  ease. 

A  sweet  reward  for  weary  task — 

To  rest  in  peace 

In  sweet  release. 

Aye,  may  we  rest  ?  I  ask. 

For  some  say  rest 

With  kindly  ruth, 

And  some  say  quest 

With  hope  of  youth; 

But  who  of  all  can  speak  the  truth  ? 


45 


BABY  SONG 

Go  to  sleep,  my  darling, 
Go  to  sleep,  my  dear; 
Little  seraphs  guard  thee 
With  attentive  ear. 

Folded  are  their  pinions 
For  the  dewy  night, 
Waiting  but  to  spread  them, 
Should  a  dream  affright. 

Closed  your  little  eye-lids, 
So  are  daisies  white. 
Saving  sweetest  sparkles 
For  the  morning  light. 

Little  mouth  is  quiet, 
Prattled  all  the  day, 
With  a  bubbling  fancy, 
All  your  world  a  play. 

Dolly  is  alive,  dear. 
Hug  her  very  tight; 
So  are  all  the  ark,  dear, 
You  are  very  right ; 

For  the  poet's  fancy 
Is  your  own,  my  dear; 
Solid  world  is  fiction, 
Ours  but  veneer. 

Chubby  little  arm,  dear, 
Still  to  hold  her  fain, 
Dimpled  as  the  water 
With  a  drop  of  rain. 

46 


Sweeter  still  than  Cupid, 
All  to  you  incline ; 
All  your  world  is  docile, 
Tamer  infantine. 

Never  prince  nor  princess 
Had  so  wide  a  sway ; 
Nor  such  jewelled  pleasures 
As  bestrew  your  way. 

You  have  faith  unbounded, 
You  have  none  to  fear, 
'Tis  the  Heaven 's  kingdom, 
Christ  desired  here. 

Could  1  travel  backward 
Through  each  closed  door. 
Picking  only  sweetness 
From  the  days  of  yore, 

Though  I  piled  them  high,  dear, 
Luscious,  fragrant,  too. 
They  would  lack  the  sweetness 
That  belongs  to  you. 

For  I  could  not  see  them 
With  your  happy  view, 
To  the  wider  vision 
Comes  the  sorrow,  too. 


47 


SPRING  SONG 

The  sap  is  flowing, 
The  buds  are  showing, 
And  Spring  is  on  the  way ; 
The  cold  is  going, 
The  breezes  blowing 
Are  soft  to  earth  today. 

0  glad  is  earth  today,  my  dear, 
For  Spring  is  nearly  here ; 
We'll  go  a-straying 

Where  lambs  are  playing, — 
Why  should  we  not  be  gay? 

The  sun  is  glowing, 

The  cocks  are  crowing, 

The  robin's  come  to  stay; 

And  Spring  tip-toeing 

Is  sweetly  throwing. 

Each  side  her  on  the  way, 

The  flowers  from  her  arms,  my  dear, 

1  see  her  tripping  near ; 
There's  no  delaying, 
Tis  time  for  playing, 
Come !  meet  her  on  the  way. 


48 


SESAME 

The  happy  earth  is  sweet  with  Spring, 
Her  warm  heart  beating  true, 

All  yellow-green  and  blossoming, 

In  morning  sun  a-glittering, 
And  fresh  and  cool  with  dew. 

I  scent  the  lilacs  once  again. 

They  waft  me  far  away, 
To  pleasant  visions  linked  with  pain, 
That  what  I  loved  could  not  remain. 

Of  my  dear  yesterday. 

O  fragrance  rare,  and  sweeter  far, 

Your  perfume  brings  to  me, 
From  gardens  never  frost  may  mar, 
Of  which  you  but  the  semblance  are — 
A  passing  image, — Sesame ! 


MY  MOTHER 

*'  'Tis  rest,"  they  said,  ''sweet  rest. 
She  lies  in  Earth's  motherly  arms, 
As  free  as  a  babe  from  alarms, 
So  still  on  that  fostering  breast." 

Then  over  her  dear,  dear  head 
The  lilies  they  lovingly  strewed, 
And  their  eyes  with  tears  were  dewed 
As  they  bent  o'er  her  flowery  bed. 

*'  'Tis  a  sweet,  sweet  rest,"  they  said, 

But  bitter  it  was  to  me, 

That  sweetness  should  cease  to  be : 

They  were  words,  mere  words,  for  the  dead. 

Dead ! — 0  my  heart  was  stone,  > 

And  no  more  came  tears  to  my  eyes, 
Than  springs  in  a  desert  arise 
All  burnt  in  the  torrid  zone. 

"We  were  sure  that  her  love  was  proved," 
I  felt  was  their  secret  thought, 
"She  should  wither  with  grief  o 'er- wrought, 
But  she  stands  as  one  unmoved." 

0  to  force  the  tears !  I  thought. 
As  I  covered  my  face  from  view, 
Lest  a  shallow  mind  construe 
Some  slight  to  her  memory  sought. 

O  the  years,  the  long  drawn  years, 
Of  that  crushing,  lingering  pain, 
Till  the  tears  would  come  again, 
The  long-lost  river  of  tears ! 

50 


Not  the  surface  tears,  but  the  deep, 
Not  the  sob  for  a  transient  woe, 
Which  may  come  today  and  go, 
But  the  fathomless  tears  to  weep. 

Could  they  rise  and  be  wrung  from  my  soulf 

If  I  reached  for  hope  at  all, 

I  struck  at  a  prison  wall. 

And  the  damp  through  my  being  stole. 

The  long  years  passed,  and  I  stood 
By  one  they  would  bear  away 
To  another  bed  of  clay. 
And  a  mother  she  was,  and  good. 

When  I  saw  her  white  hand  there, 
Blue  veined  it  was  and  so  thin. 
With  a  drawn,  transparent  skin, — 
'Twas  so  like, — and  the  snowy  hair! 

Uprose  the  flood  from  within, 
I  wept  at  the  heart's  heart-core, 
O'erflowed  as  a  low-laid  shore 
When  the  full  flood  tide  comes  in. 


51 


TO  MY  MOTHER 

Still  I  travel  the  world's  weary  stages, 

Though  aching  and  dusty  my  feet, 

And  the  faith  of  my  first  pilgrimages 

Is  lost  with  the  hopes  that  were  sweet ; 

And  the  aureoled  saints  of  the  morning, 

When  the  dawn-mist  melts  into  day, 

No  longer  my  temple  adorning, 

Are  paper  and  paint  and  clay. 

But  the  light  of  your  face  still  is  luring, 

My  saint  that  is  saint  alway. 

Your  love,  that  forever  enduring, 

Surviveth  the  worm  and  clay, 

My  halting  hope  re-assuring 

With  smiles  so  sweet  to  my  soul. 

My  lagging  faith  re-ensuring, 

And  turns  my  prow  for  the  goal, — 

A  goal  that  is  lifting  and  shifting 

Like  light  on  a  distant  shore. 

Your  voice  still  speaks  when  I'm  drifting 

And  urges  me  on  evermore. 


52 


0  WHAT  OF  THINE  EYE 

0  what  of  thine  eye 

With  the  blue  of  the  sky, 

And  thy  cheek  of  a  delicate  rose? 

Will  the  blue  mount  high 

To  its  place  in  the  sky 

When  thy  lily-white  eyelids  close? 

And  the  pink  of  the  rose 

To  a  clod  decompose, 

And  then  garland  a  Summer  glade, 

Or  might  float  on  a  pool. 

When  the  morning  is  cool 

And  the  East  is  of  peach  bloom  made? 

And  thy  yellow  bright  hair 

Be  a  part  of  the  glare 

When  the  gates  of  the  West  are  ajar, 

Or  diaphanous  flare 

Of  a  comet's  hair 

Whose  tresses  are  caught  with  a  star? 

0  one  may  find  all. 

They  will  come  at  the  call. 

They  are  beautiful  bits  of  thee. 

When  they  lay  the  pall, 

To  the  grave  a  thrall, 

And  thou  art  an  absentee. 

That  the  violet  bloom 

On  the  dust  of  the  tomb 

Which  in  aeons  may  spring  from  thee, 

Is  a  thought  of  gloom, — 

'Tis  a  scanty  room 

For  the  something  that  mounted  free. 

53 


Out  of  the  hiving  swarm 

Of  laden  impressions  warm, 

There  arises  the  transient  'Hhee," 

Or  the  whirl  of  a  storm 

That  shook  into  form 

An  eddy  of  leaves  but  to  be 

In  the  wake  of  the  gale, 

Or  the  pelt  of  the  hail, 

Reduced  to  the  level  at  last; 

And  never  to  sail. 

Nor  a  wind  e'er  avail 

Though  it  swept  o  'er  the  earth  in  a  blast. 

'Tis  a  note  here  and  there. 

Afloat  on  the  air, 

That  was  caught  in  a  tune  of  thee; 

'Tis  a  melody  rare, 

Nor  may  any  compare  ^ 

In  the  variant  harmony. 

'Twas  a  chord  that  came 

From  a  soul  of  flame, 

A  wind  that  swept  over  thy  strings, 

That  is  gone  without  name. 

With  no  match  for  the  same, 

Though  all  the  bright  universe  sings. 

There  is  none  like  thee. 

Nor  shall  ever  be : 

Thou  hast  come  as  Excalibur. 

Like  the  rose  on  the  tree 

Any  rose  may  be, 

But  thou  shalt  never  recur. 

'Tis  a  transient  face 
And  a  fleeting  grace, 

54 


Like  the  haze  on  a  distant  hill; 

'Tis  a  moment's  space 

In  the  shifting  race, 

That  dwindles  each  way  to  nil. 

On  a  point  are  we, 

In  infinity. 

Do  we  drop  apart  for  aye? 

And  my  love  for  thee. 

And  thy  love  for  me. 

Can  it  bind  us  beyond  the  day  ? 

And  what  is  the  need 
For  the  bud  and  the  seed, — 
Is  it  earth  and  air  of  to-day? 
Should  they  fail  to  feed, 
'Twould  the  fruit  impede. 
And  all  of  it  shrivels  away. 

Is  fruition  all; 

Do  the  parents  fall 

To  the  earth,  as  withered  leaves? 

Is  there  no  recall 

From  the  blinding  pall? 

Are  we  straw  in  the  garner's  sheaves? 

'Tis  a  sadder  thing 

Than  all  pain  may  bring, 

'Tis  the  acme  of  human  woe. 

That  our  loves  but  spring 

For  a  banishing, — 

And  the  whither,  ah !  who  may  know  ? 

But  then  answered  she, 

''  'Tis  thy  simile 

That  leads  thee  to  leaves  and  clay. 


55 


For  the  makers  be 

Not  the  destiny 

That  is  bound  by  the  night  and  day. 

"Not  for  seed  are  we; 

For  our  entity 

The  seeding 's  the  mortal  part; 

Immortality 

Is  the  gift,  which  we 

May  bestow,  of  the  mind  and  heart. 

"And  no  blight  nor  ill, 

Save  it  be  our  will, 

Can  quench  its  eternal  bloom; 

And  no  frost  can  chill, 

Nor  the  Winter  kill. 

For  its  roots  are  not  in  the  tomb. 

"  'Twill  renew  for  aye. 

Though  we  pass  away; 

What  we  make — is  it  more  than  wet 

That  shall  not  decay 

Which  did  life  convey 

With  the  bloom  of  eternity. 

^'There's  a  hope  for  me. 

As  a  rhapsody 

Whose  notes  I  have  partly  heard, — 

To  the  melody 

They  may  be  the  key, 

Though  I  know  not  a  single  word." 


56 


THE  CATHEDRAL 

Within  a  little  town  there  lies 

An  ancient  Gothic  pile; 
Its  noble  spire,  Babel-wise, 
Is  reaching  still  to  touch  the  skies, 

While  past  the  ages  file. 

The  architect  with  dizzy  eyes, 

With  vision  full  of  gleams, 
By  balanced  thrust,  to  neutralize, 
Has  made  the  heavy  stone  to  rise 

In  gossamer  of  dreams. 

The  walls  inert  were  spun  to  thread 

By  inspiration  of  his  plan; 
The  lofty  vault  was  poised  o  'er  head 
Where  pointed  arches  upward  led 

To  reach  an  airy  span. 

Relentless  rock,  the  wave  defies, 
Was  bended  into  melting  curve, 

And  gravity  its  name  belies. 

Though  pulled  to  earth  was  made  to  rise, 
The  master  mind  to  serve. 

The  muUioned  windows,  jewelled,  shine 

In  sapphire  blue  and  ruby  red; 
Aslant  the  aisles  the  rays  incline. 
Of  sunbeams  turned  to  limpid  wine, 
A  tinted  twilight  over-spread. 

The  march  of  piers  adown  the  aisle. 

Though  massive,  slender  to  the  eye, 
For  weight  to  height  they  reconcile. 
And  from  the  ground  the  soul  beguile 
To  vaults  that  aim  the  sky. 

57 


A  spark  enkindles  lifeless  stone 
Which  bursts  in  lavish  bloom, 
With  flora,  fauna,  not  alone, 
But  saints  in  niches  to  enthrone, 
Arisen  from  the  tomb. 

And  griffins,  monsters,  imps  as  well, 

When  fancy  had  her  play. 
And  every  phase  of  life  compel 
To  fall  within  the  master's  spell, 

His  purpose  to  obey. 

No  hackneyed  sickness  dwarfed  his  mind, 

In  stupid  faith  decayed; 
Unsatisfied,  he  strove  to  find 
Some  way  the  infinite  to  bind 

In  marble,  mystic  made. 

The  glowing  glass  the  blower  bends 

In  shape  unto  his  will; 
In  growing  cold  the  fever  spends; 
In  other  forms  he  then  intends 

To  shape  new  beauty  still. 

But  he,  the  builder,  could  not  square 

With  years  his  primal  plan : 
Beyond  all  compass  did  he  dare 
To  build  more  beautiful  and  fair 

Than  time  allows  to  man. 

Here  some  o'erwhelmed  aspire  with  awe 
Who  with  the  master-mind  immerse, 

Beholding  beauties  without  flaw, 

Assembled  unto  magic  law. 
As  is  the  universe. 


58 


Not  so  the  sleepy  celebrant  : 

His  hopes  are  all  attained; 
His  heaven  sure,  he  reads  the  chant, 
And  they  are  safe  who  hold  his  cant, 

Because  his  god  is  chained. 

By  bells  and  beads  his  prayers  are  made ; 

His  soul  is  satisfied ; 
He  dwells  in  damp,  sepulchral  shade, 
And  shadows  on  his  soul  are  laid 

From  light  he  has  denied. 

The  swinging  censer  fills  the  air 

With  heavy  mist  of  myrrh, 
With  fragrant  gums  and  spices  rare. 
And  sculptured  saints,  who  glory  wear, 

Are  lost  amid  the  blur. 

The  organ  thunders  rise  and  fall. 

Resound  to  airy  vaults; 
The  choirs  sing  antiphonal, 
The  richly  robed  processional 

Before  the  altar  halts. 

Embossed  with  gold  and  jewels  rare. 

The  priest  in  scarlet  fine, 
Lifts  up  the  host  with  muttered  prayer, 
And  calls  on  Christ  to  enter  there 

The  golden  chaliced  wine. 

(The  Carpenter  of  simple  creed 
Who  supped  with  fishermen. 
Himself  from  ceremony  freed. 
His  ethics  drawn  from  human  need. 
And  not  beyond  their  ken!) 

59 


The  congregation,  stunted,  sit, 

Nor  ever  raise  their  eyes; 
For  saints  alone  are  candles  lit; 
For  men  a  pleasing  counterfeit 

Of  buying  Paradise. 

Unheard  the  words  of  muttered  lore, 

Unseen  where  jewels  deck. 
To  some  poor  sitter  at  the  door — 
So  vast  the  nave, — the  pillars  soar — 
The  priest  a  scarlet  speck. 


60 


THE  MAGIC  RING 

To  all  the  secrets  earth  would  keep, 

Brave  men  are  finding  key; 
They  break  her  laws  the  air  to  sweep, 
And  into  holies  fearless  peep 
Where  men  have  bent  the  knee. 

And  all  who  spurn  the  magic  ring 

Inert  are  they  as  stone, 
For  knowledge  gives  to  soul  the  wing 
To  pass  the  bars  which  limit  bring 

To  wishes,  weak  alone. 

And  what  the  age  prefigureth 

The  seers  strive  to  see, — 
To  rein  the  forces,  hamper  death, 
And  all  the  seekers  holding  breath 

At  glimpse  of  what  shall  be. 


61 


MISFITS 

If  we  had  never  made  the  creeds 

That  now  misfit  the  growing  needs, 

If  gowns,  before,  were  never  planned, 

Though  pigmy  to  our  large  demand, 

We  might  be  that  from  which  we  sprung 

And  find  ourselves  prehensile  hung 

Within  the  forest  green ; 

With  scent  of  nostril  over-keen, 

And  finger  fashioned  with  the  claw, 

With  fangs  to  bite  a  diet  raw. 

And  manners  of  the  jungle  law, 

With  no  decisive  mark  of  mind 

Between  ourselves  and  other  kind. 

O  it  is  making  garb  too  small 

That  we  have  learned  to  make  at  all ! 

The  pattern  helped  to  make  anew. 

And  ever  making  nearer  true. 

Discarding,  and  retaining,  too. 

Unto  a  larger  realm  we  grew. 

For  in  that  far  essay  to  think 

We  made  the  gap  of  ** missing  link.*' 


PARAPHRASED  FROM  VICTOR  HUGO 

Alone  with  the  waves  and  sky  am  I, 
By  a  sailless  sea  and  a  cloudless  sky. 
Still  farther  I  peer  than  worlds  real; 
With  wood  and  mountain  I  seem  to  feel 
The  question  they  ask  the  wave  and  sky. 
Threading  the  ether,  stars  of  gold, 
Voicing  harmonies  manifold, 
Making  the  infinite  their  lyre, 
Say,  as  they  swing  their  lamps  of  fire, 
''It  is  the  Lord,  the  Lord  God." 


THE  ENTOMOLOGIST 

In  stilly  night,  when  candles  most  were  out, 
O'er  treasures  garnered  from  his  travels  far, 
An  insect-lover  bent  his  reverent  head 
And  glanced  his  searching  eye  around  about 
The  rows  of  beetles,  each  a  shining  star. 
Each  one  he  fondly  handled,  green  or  red, 
Or  other  hue,  with  bright  metalie  sheen. 
The  lamp-light  fell  upon  his  noble  face, 
Framed  in  the  scattered  locks  of  shaggy  hair, 
It  warmed  the  tan,  revealed  the  sweet,  serene, 
And  childlike  soul  which  lent  a  gentle  grace 
To  rugged  features,  lines  of  pain  and  care 
And  overwork.    A  tender  curve  of  joy 
Caressed  the  corners  of  his  straight-set  mouth. 
His  eye  would  sparkle  as  he  talked  to  each 
Hard-won  and  many-coloured  gleaming  toy. 
The  product  of  his  journeys  North  and  South, 
Of  many  places  near,  or  hard  to  reach: 
''And  you,  my  tiger-beetle,"  thus  he  said, 
"You  green  and  bronze  and  yellow  spotted  one, 
I  caught  upon  the  dusty  road;  so  still 
You  stood,  you  rascal;  then  away  you  sped 
Like  lightning,  but  you  faced  about  (for  fun?) 
Before  alighting.    Yet  it  was  my  will 
That  I  should  get  you,  whatsoe'er  you  do. 
And  you,  my  shining  black,  from  'neath  a  stone 
Did  scamper  (like  myself  at  fire  alarm). 
And  you,  my  beauty,  gold  and  violet-blue, 
With  hints  of    green    and  copper,  bright  you 

shone 
Upon  that  tree,  though  bent  on  doing  harm. 
And  you,  my  warrior,  blue  and  orange  hue. 
You,  whom  they  call  the  brave  bombardier. 
Who  fired  your  pop-gun  in  my  very  face ; 

64 


Your  smoke  and  sound  might  well  avail 
For  lesser  foes, — but  not  that  fatal  day. 
(Before  the  step  of  Time  we  too  give  place; 
Our  false  alarm  and  smoke  will  sadly  fail 
When  he  comes  on  his  depredating  way.) 
And  you,  my  devil 's  coach  horse,  dull  and  black. 
With  elevated  head  and  tail,  with  jaw 
Distended  for  a  snap  at  passers-by, 
I  took  you  'spite  the  chip  upon  your  back. 
(Just  so,  some  folk  will  always  find  a  flaw, 
They  bristle  up  at  all  the  world  awry.) 
And  here's  my  tumble  bug,  so  like  to  me, 
Who  roll  my  troubles  into  such  a  heap, 
I  rarely  reach  the  top  in  all  the  wide 
Circumference, — a  funny  sight  to  see. 
If  God  should  turn  and  slyly  take  a  peep. 
And  you,  my  ladybird,  so  neatly  pied, 
Your  scarlet  coat;  I  do  admire  your  taste. 
Amid  the  dusky  gleams,  a  stagnant  pool 
With  fragrant  ferns  and  rushes  on  its  shore, 
A  child,  I  watched  my  whirligig  which  traced 
His  waving  curves  with  all  his  jolly  school 
Of  social  followers,  who  swim,  and  more, 
Who  fly,  have  eyes  to  see  above,  below. 
As  either  element  demands,  (as  I 
Would  see  the  world  and  yet  the  spirit  too.) 
And  you,  my  firefly,  who  flash  and  go. 
So  like  the  thoughts  which  might  reveal  the  sky 
Of  empyreans  I  have  longed  to  view. 
And  you,  my  moulten  iridescent  one. 
My  golden  green,  with  many  a  changing  hue, 
Whose  fine  emotions  often  make  you  glow 
Like  melted  rainbows  in  the  dripping  sun, — 
Alas!  they  fade  away  at  death,  'tis  true. 
(Shall  all  my  treasured  colours  perish  so? 
Or  form  is  naught  and  they  alone  are  real, 

65 


And  I  am  they,  my  own  of  all  that's  here, 
And  mine  to  take  when  thither  I  shall  go? 
These  bugs  I  can  bequeath ;  can  I  reveal 
The  colours  of  my  soul,  both  rare  and  dear  ? 
Lo !  in  my  book  are  all  your  forms  arranged, 
Your  evolutions  and  your  habits  all. 
Could  I  impart  some  glow  of  what  you  mean, 
Some   flush   of  life,   so   that   the  whole   were 

changed 
To  living  drama,  all  the  scenes  recall — 
A  bit  of  sky,  of  country  road,  or  forest  green — 
So  like  to  ours  the  world  of  insects  grows ! 
Would  I  could  leave  the  flash  that  here  and 

there 
Reveals  a  larger  truth,  amid  the  night 
Of  ignorance,  and  though  I  take  the  rose, 
Could  leave  within  the  page  a  fragrance  rare  I) " 


66 


THE  NECTAR  OF  LIFE 

0  give  me  the  rich  red  wine ! 

1  thirst  for  the  purple  juice, 
For  the  nectar  of  life  divine, — 
For  gold  I  have  scarce  a  use. 

For  gold,  should  I  lay  it  away, 
Is  gold  to  the  end  of  time. 
But  richer  grows  wine  each  day, 
As  rich  as  the  tropic  clime. 

It  clears  like  to  stained  glass. 
And  glows  as  the  sunset  glows. 
For  the  lights  that  through  it  pass 
Are  tinct  to  the  deepest  rose. 

All  through  me  it  burns  and  thrills. 
And  dancing  there  comes  a  throng 
Of  words  into  tunes  and  trills — 
Shall  I  leave  the  gold,  or  a  song? 


67 


A  LITTLE  CHILD  SAT  ON  MY  KNEE 

A  little  child  sat  on  my  knee, 

With  curly  hair  of  sunny  hue, 

With  cheeks  as  pink  as  peach-blown  tree, 

And  eyes  forget-me-nots  of  blue. 

I  held  my  watch  close  to  her  ear, 
That  she  might  note  the  steady  click. 
All  wonder-wrapt  the  sound  to  hear. 
She  said  to  me,  "What  makes  it  tick?" 

' '  My  dear, ' '  I  said,  ' '  I  cannot  tell ; 
You  are  too  young  to  understand ; 
When  you  are  older,  very  well 
I  can  explain  by  speech  and  hand." 

So,  too,  we  bend  to  earth  the  ear,  i 

To  catch  the  pulse-beat  of  all  time, 
And  ask  the  why,  with  half  a  fear. 
For  answers  that  are  too  sublime. 

We  are  too  young ;  when  aeons  ring 
Their  circles  through  our  changing  zone, 
The  very  outermost  may  bring 
Keply  with  no  uncertain  tone. 


68 


TO  THE  ROOK 

The  lofty  elm  is  your  eyrie, 
On  top  of  the  topmost  bough ; 
What  makes  your  note  ever  cheery, 
Your  clan  and  you  never  weary 
With  your  caw,  caw,  caw? 

You  dip  and  swing  with  the  breezes, 
Against  the  blue  of  the  sky ; 
You  have  no  guile  nor  diseases; 
And  storm  or  hail  only  pleases, 
While  you  caw,  caw,  caw. 

Your  little  ones  are  so  cosy, 
And  rocked  so  safe  in  the  air ; 
Beneath  your  mate  they  are  dozy, 
When  all  the  West  is  so  rosy. 
And  you  caw,  caw,  caw. 

Your  work  leaves  you  never  jaded, 
Though  digging  grubs  all  the  day ; 
You  raise  a  cloud  if  invaded. 
And  greedy  man  is  upbraided 
With  your  caw,  caw,  caw. 

The  earth  is  your  freehold  ever. 
Not  parcelled  out  as  to  man; 
You  all  make  equal  endeavour; 
Your  friendly  league  will  not  sever 
At  a  caw,  caw,  caw. 

A  jolly  time  is  your  season. 
You  take  the  world  as  it  is; 
No  cause  frets  you,  nor  a  reason ; 
You  never  fear  there  is  treason 
In  your  caw,  caw,  caw. 


69 


TO  A  ROMAN  LATCH-KEY 

A  rusty  bit  of  metal  now, 

Fit  for  the  curio. 

And  yet  I  can  imagine  how 

You  turned  the  latch  for  friend, 

Or  guarded  from  the  foe. 

Some  villa  at  the  city's  end 

Where  togaed  Romans  used  to  wend, 

And  sandaled  matron  entertained. 

Where  charmed  guest  had  oft  remained 

For  feast  or  pleasant  game. 

Some  gracious  lady  in  her  flowing  gown 

With  beauty  and  a  high  renown, — 

And  now  without  a  name. 

Nor  villa  for  the  key. 

Nor  town,  nor  avenue. 

A  void  reality,  ' 

But  sadly  true ! 

And  our  philosophies. 

Of  which  we  were  so  sure. 

Our  mighty  creeds  for  which  we  held  the  keys, 

And  which  were  built  so  well 

We  knew  they  must  endure, 

Of  that  we  could  foretell ! 

We  have  the  rusty  keys 

Writ  down  in  dusty  books 

On  shelves  in  shady  nooks 

Which  every  age  in  passing  sees. 

We  keep  them  there 

And  prize  them,  too, 

For  what  they  once  were  said  to  do. 

But  where  the  well-built  houses,  where ! 


70 


AFFINITY 

Somewhere,  my  love,  forevermore, 

Far,  far,  within  my  dreams, 
Beyond  the  farthest  misty  shore, 
All  Gothic-carved  in  legend  lore. 

My  fairy  palace  faintly  gleams. 

Aglow,  in  splendour,  dazzling  white, 

Its  towers  rise  above  the  mist. 
And  break  in  curves  of  flashing  light, 
Where  ripples  run  in  gay  delight 
Across  a  lake  of  amethyst. 

About  it  all  the  woods  are  sweet 
With  hyacinths  of  purple  hue, 
A  waving  carpet  for  the  feet 
Which  never  down  their  petals  beat, 
But  are  as  light  as  morning  dew. 

A  yellow  glow  is  on  the  glade. 

Like  Summer  evening  after  rain ; 
And  through  the  dark-green  velvet  shade 
Are  strips  of  sunshine  softly  laid 
In  bands  as  gold  as  ripened  grain. 

Through  rosy  meadows,  daisy-pied, 

Like  silver  threads  the  rivers  run, 
Or  sun-lit  through  the  clearings  glide. 
Where  daffodils  spread  far  and  wide 
A  cloth  of  gold  to  match  the  sun. 

As  dazzling  showers  cool  the  air, 
Though  Summer  sun  is  shining  still. 

The  meadow  larks  spring  everywhere 

To  warble  music,  liquid,  rare, 
And  all  the  meads  with  rapture  fill. 

71 


A  misty  blue,  the  hills  and  dells ; 

The  mountain  peaks  are  virgin  snow; 
As  Sabbath  morn  the  valley  dwells, — 
The  hush,  before  cathedral  bells 

Ring  out  the  chimes  to  all  below. 

As  fresh  as  after  rain  the  breeze, 

Or  on  the  violets  the  dew. 
On  wafted  fragrance  float  the  bees 
To  sip  the  sweets  upon  the  leas 

From  bending  blooms  of  every  hue. 

Assembled  in  my  palace  halls 
My  guests  are  gossamer  as  air ; 

In  painted  story  are  the  walls; 

From  pointed  window  slanting  falls 
Each  rainbow  tint  upon  their  hair. 

As  breezes  soft  on  southern  seas 

Becalm  the  waves  to  melody. 
As  through  the  pines  the  zephyr  breathes, 
Or  gentle  showers  on  the  leaves, 

Their  voices  whisper  poesy. 

A  hint, — and  I  am  wafted  there, 

Past  sun  and  moon  and  distant  star ; 
A  picture,  music,  fragrance  rare, 
A  word,  a  thrill,  and  then  I  fare 
To  where  my  dream-possessions  are. 

A  sweet  mirage,  a  glimpse  sublime, 

I  catch  within  your  beaming  eyes, 
Of  some  enchanted  lovely  clime, 
Beyond  the  bounds  of  space  and  time, 
Beyond  my  farthest  faint  surmise. 

72 


I  feel  your  heart  beat  when  I  fold 
Your  body  to  my  warm  embrace, 
Your  spirit  still  escapes  my  hold 
And  slips  beyond  me  free  and  bold 
To  some  forbidden,  happy  place. 

Sometimes  I  try  to  travel  there — 

You  give  the  hint,  I  feel  the  glow, 
When  waves  are  warm  and  weather  fair, 
I  feel  the  spray  and  scent  the  air, 
But  bars  forbid,  I  cannot  go. 

Perchance,  when  we  are  body  free, — 
The  bars  removed  that  lie  between 

The  visions  that  we  dimly  see, — 

We  then  shall  prove  affinity. 

That  yours  and  mine  are  one  demesne. 


73 


LOVE'S  MAGIC 

O  I  might  sing  of  rivers,  dear, 

That  flow  into  the  sea; 
Of  winds  that  softest  kisses  give 

To  flowers  on  the  lea ; 

Of  Summer,  wedding  sun  and  shade 

To  buttercup  and  violet ; 
Or  he  that  draws  the  smiling  sea 

With  crimson  blushes  ere  he  set; 

Of  hills  that  wear  a  bridal  veil 

To  wed  the  jewelled  field; 
And  all  the  loves  of  happy  birds, 

Their  similes  to  yield. 

But  there  are  double  stars,  my  dear, 

From  kiss  of  fiery  suns, 
Which  ever  round  each  other  spin, 

And  far  their  orbit  runs. 

The  one  a  precious  sapphire  blue, 

The  other  ruby  hued. 
Nor  in  the  circle,  magic  made, 

May  yellow  suns  intrude 

To  turn  the  red  to  scarlet  flame. 

The  blue  to  jealous  green. 
Self-lighted  suns,  they  thread  the  vast 

And  limitless  demesne. 

Chromatic  is  the  light  and  shade 

They  mutually  bestow ; 
The  shade  is  wrought  of  violets, 

For  light  the  roses  blow. 


74 


And  far  beyond  the  thought  of  time, 
Beyond  the  thought  of  space, 

Their  loving  revolution  bounds 
In  never  ending  race. 


75 


TO  MY  SWEETHEART 

Out  of  the  gate  of  dreams  we  speed, 

Hands  joined  in  ecstasy, 
Far  through  the  gleaming  paths  you  lead 

To  where  we  used  to  be. 

How  gay  the  path  with  blossoms  hemmed ! 

How  sweet,  as  long  ago ! 
All  rainbow  tints  with  dew-drops  gemmed 

The  sunlight  sets  aglow. 

The  air's  so  clear  and  bracing  here, 
Your  cheeks  are  tinged  with  red; 

'Tis  poetry,  enchantment,  dear, 
Where'er  you  turn  your  head. 

But  do  not  all  turn  back  again 
When  they  have  gone  so  far? 

In  waking,  there 's  a  touch  of  pain 
This  sweetness  sure  to  mar. 

For  who  turns  back  is  sure  to  find 

It  fades  a  misty  past ; 
And  those  about  him  all  so  blind 

To  joys  that  ever  last. 

But  you  and  I,  ah,  you  and  I ! 

Go  on,  and  on,  for  aye. 
With  heart  to  heart  and  spirits  high 

As  in  that  yesterday. 

Those  distant,  dream-blue  hills  that  lie 

'Neath  peaks  of  snowy  crest, 
Against  a  violet  arch  of  sky 

Where  sinks  the  sun  to  rest ; 


76 


And  far  beyond  through  realms  of  light, 

On  —  through  Eternity, 
All  gleaming  day,  no  thought  of  night, 

Are  paths  for  you  and  me. 

I  look  into  your  loving  eyes 
And  feel  your  warm  clasp,  so ; 

Our  hearts  are  beating,  visions  rise, 
As  hastening  on  we  go. 

I  know  that  death  and  pain  and  fret 

Are  incidents  for  us. 
But  after  them,  together  yet, 

I'll  feel  your  warm  hand,  thus. 

Through  maze  of  spheres  on  airy  tread. 
Through  worlds  we  do  not  know, 

Together  still,  we  shall  be  led 
Where  only  love  can  go. 


77 


IF  I  COULD  CHOOSE 

If  I  could  choose, 
I  would  not  lose 
One  moment  from  thee, 
Sweet,  my  own, 

And  all  the  days 
Be  seeking  ways 
To  bring  thee  pleasures 
Still  unknown. 

But  I  must  work, 
I  cannot  shirk 
Because  I  love  thee. 
Sweet,  my  dear. 

Our  love  would  pale, 
Its  charm  would  fail. 
Unless  we  earn  it 
Very  dear. 


78 


I  KNOW  MY  LOVE  IS  TRUE 

I  have  such  faith  in  him  I  love, 
I  do  not  watch  him  from  above, 
As  if  he  were  a  creeping  thing 
With  fangs  to  give  my  heart  a  sting; 
I  know  my  love  is  always  true, 
And  never  fear  what  he  will  do. 

I  need  no  bars  for  my  own  love, 
So  I  will  not  his  fetter  prove. 
For  love  belongs  to  flying  things, 
Alas,  for  me  to  clip  his  wings ! 

0  let  him  soar  and  touch  the  blue! 
He  will  come  home  for  nesting,  too. 

When  dangers  threaten,  and  some  one 
Must  guard  or  fight,  I  know  'tis  done. 
When  tempters  come  I  know  the  word, 
Though  I  were  far  and  had  not  heard; 

1  am  content,  and  need  no  clue, 
For  well  I  know  what  he  will  do. 

When  fads  and  follies  have  their  sway, 
And  some  new  lordling  has  his  day. 
And  prates  that  all  the  world  is  wrong, 
I  know  my  love  will  answer  strong; 
Nor  all  their  silly  retinue 
Can  block  the  road  he  will  pursue. 

No  other's  word  for  his  I  take, 
For  on  his  truth  my  all  I  stake. 
If  any  fail  to  find  him  true, 
'Tis  fault  of  their 's  and  not  his  due ; 
For  aye,  'tis  I  who  know  him  true 
And  can  predict  what  he  wiU  do. 

79 


He  reads  my  thought  in  hand  and  eye, 
And  scarcely  need  we  make  reply, 
For  words  are  slow  and  cumbrous  things, 
And  swifter,  thought,  than  flight  of  wings, 
And  softly  swing  the  windows,  too, 
To  visions  closed  to  colder  view. 

0  what  a  home  his  heart  to  me ! 
A  nestling  I  could  always  be ! 
Though  others  shift,  and  pay  the  toll, 

1  know  what  garden  for  my  soul 

Is  still  as  sweet  with  honey  dew 
As  when  the  tender  Spring  was  new. 

0  cold  and  bleak  the  icy  world ! 

O  warm  the  hearth  where  I  am  curled ! 

O  sad  is  some  misgiving  heart 

Who  from  his  Eden  must  depart. 

And  passing  verdure,  halts  to  rue 
A  desert  stretching  far  to  view ! 


80 


PENUMBRA 

There  is  something  in  the  air, 
Though  the  sun  is  shining  fair, 
I  can  see  it  looming  there, 
All  the  whiles. 

Tell  me  what  it  is  I've  done 
That  should  dim  the  shining  sun. 
That  the  clouds  should  overrun 
Sunny  smiles? 

Smile,  my  dear,  while  it  is  light. 
O  forgive  a  little  slight! 
You  might  wish,  when  comes  the  night, 
You'd  forgot. 

Here's  for  sweetness  all  the  day; 
Give  and  take  it  while  you  may ; 
Plenty  sorrow  comes  our  way, — 
Make  it  not. 


81 


TO  MY  SWEETHEART 

Will  you  love  me,  little  sweetheart, 
When  the  dew  is  off  the  grass; 

When  the  buds  and  tender  leaflets 
Fall  and  rustle  as  you  pass? 

Will  you  love  me  when  the  snow  falls, 
And  the  air  is  bleak  and  cold? 

Will  you  love  me  when  I  totter 
And  the  lasses  call  me  old? 

When  my  hair  is  touched  with  silver 
And  my  face  is  wrinkled  too? 

There  are  many  handsome  maidens 
That  will  have  a  charm  for  you. 

For  the  young  have  winsome  faces,     , 
Catching  manners,  too,  my  dear ; 

Tis  mere  youth  that  gives  them  graces, 
Health  that  gives  the  body  cheer. 

There 's  a  thrill  and  pulse  in  Springtime, 
Splendid  promise,  you  will  say; 

But  not  all  the  buds  of  April 
Will  be  blossoming  in  May. 

And  there's  many  a  worm  and  canker 
From  the  moths  that  steal,  to-day, 

Into  buds  and  tender  blossoms, 
Planting  seed  for  their  decay. 

But  the  Autumn  is  the  test-time, 
When  the  fruit  is  ripe  to  eat, 

When  the  blush  is  not  deceptive 
And  the  core  is  clean  and  sweet; 

82 


When  the  seed  is  ripe  and  ready, 
Plump  and  of  the  best  degree 

That  the  genus  yet  has  offered 
For  the  fruitage  still  to  be. 

Only  love  me  for  my  worth,  dear, 
Put  me  to  the  test  and  see ; 

Try  me  by  the  tests  of  Autumn, 
Tests  that  stand  eternity. 


83 


ONLY  ONE 

Who  are  all  your  dearest  sweethearts 
That  you  sing  so  much  about, 
That  you  prize  beyond  all  telling, 
And  you  could  not  do  without? 
Who  the  loves  you  call  immortal 
With  affinities  sublime, 
That  you  trace  beyond  the  portal 
Of  the  outer  door  of  Time? 
They  are  one,  I  answer  bravely, 
There  is  one,  and  only  one. 
For  the  fates  have  stoutly  woven, 
Warp  and  woof  are  we  they  spun ; 
And  should  one  begin  to  ravel 
Then  alas !  are  we  undone. 
All  the  palaces  of  fancy, 
All  the  heavens  pictured  fair, 
Would  to  me  be  dust  and  ashes, 
Bliss  were  none  could  he  not  share. 
Oh  the  pains  in  thought  of  parting 
With  no  other  pains  compare! 
I  should  much  prefer  a  dungeon. 
Even  hell,  if  he  were  there. 
Place  us  in  a  grave  together, 
Heart  to  heart  we  still  would  lie, 
Waking  so,  or  sleeping  ever. 
As  the  aeons  pass  us  by. 
Waking?     Comes  the  fear  to  sever. 
Oh !  if  there's  a  kindly  Fate, 
We  beseech  of  thee  in  mercy 
Part  us  not  beyond  the  gate. 


84 


PROCRASTINATION 

Said  Plutus '  namesake :   ' '  Now  it  seemeth  meet 
To  taste  the  sweets  of  life,  so  long  denied ; 
I'll  please  my  tongue,  as  one  who  gathers  wide 
Rich,  luscious  fruit  that  is  delight  to  eat : 
Soft  downy  peaches,  cherries,  grapes  replete 
With  nectar;  melons,  apricots — inside, 
Aurora  yellow;  primrose  pears  all  pied 
With  russet,  melting,  cool;  and  figs  so  sweet, 
So  ripe  you  scarce  can  eat  nor  let  them  fall; 
And  purple  plums  that  shame  the  tint  of  kings. 
0  life  mellifluous,  now  is  my  day!" 
With  smile  and  stroke  of  beard,  old  Time  rose 

tall 
Behind  him,   gave  him  aches,   and  pain  that 

stings ; 
Laid  hand  upon  his  head  and  left  him  grey. 


85 


FORGET-ME-NOTS 

Across  the  hills  of  early  wheat  I  strolled; 
Not  far  above  their  rim  the  smiling  sun 
Grew  mellow,  for  his  course  was  nearly  done, 
And  shot  each  blade  and  leaf  of  tender  fold 
With  yellow  lights — translucent,  greenish  gold. 
Beyond,  and  down,  my  little  path  was  spun 
To  tiny  thread;  behind,  it  seemed  to  run 
To  meet  the  sky.     Thus  sauntering,  behold! 
O  wondrous  view!     Within  a  sheltered  spot, 
Where  sprinkled  dandelions  seemed  to  shine 
Like  suns  amid  the  grass,  a  bit  of  sky — 
As  melts  above  the  warm  horizon  line 
In  June — had  taken  root  to  beautify 
The  earth,  in  guise  of  wild  forget-me-not. 


86 


CHRISTMAS  SONNET 

The  world  is  white  and  tinkling  bells  ring  gay 
The  Christmas  time.  Fresh  hopes,  as  roses  red, 
Bloom  in  the  children's  smiles.     The  banquet's 

spread 
With  luscious  sweets  culled  from  the  buds  of 

May. 
1  love  the  children  and  am  glad  their  day. 
To  me  the  banquet  is  but  meat  and  bread, 
Tasteless  and  stale.     I  eat  and  am  not  fed ; 
Nor  can  I  think  of  Christ,  though  preachers 

pray. 
But  oh !  the  vision  of  the  long  ago, — 
The  wondrous  feast,  the  presents,  the  surprise! 
1  see  their  faces  through  the  mist  still  glow: 
They  sit  around  the  table,  nor  arise 
To  end  the  feast ;  I  dream,  and  dream,  when  lo ! 
I  sit  with  them  and  dine  in  Paradise ! 


87 


TO    THE    MEN   WHO    PROCLAIMED    THE 
REPUBLIC  OF  PORTUGAL,  OCT.  4,  1910 

Hail!  to  the  valiant  messengers  of  day, 
Who  from  the  hill-top  see  a  streak  of  red 
And  turning  swift  with  eager  steps  are  sped 
To  those  below  on  whom  the  shadows  stay. 
Not  slaves,  but  men,  will  rise  and  have  their  say 
When  parasites  are  on  the  people  fed. 
The  iron  rods,  the  slaves  are  wont  to  dread. 
Are  willow  wands  when  really  put  to  bay. 
Like  Arctic  travellers  the  tyrants  sleep, 
They  view  the  frozen  way,  compact,  secure, 
And  full  of  hope  into  their  bags  they  creep, 
That  on  the  morrow  all  the  way  is  sure. 
And  know  not,  snugly  wrapt  in  slumber  fast, 
A  lead  is  opening,  black,  and  deep,  and  vast. 


^ 


NO  WINDOW  TAX 

Why  should  men  walk  a  mimic,  mincing  gait 
With  that  slow  army  that  must  keep  in  file 
With  dwarfish  leaders  down  a  narrow  aisle? 
Trimmed  hedges,  they,  to  guard  some  priest's 

estate 
For  swinish  feast,  or  blind  episcopate. 
Why  should  they  list  to  sneering  scoffer 's  smile, 
Who   would  their  souls  from   sweetest  truth 

beguile. 
And  cage  them  with  the  iron  bars  of  hate? 
No  window  tax  nor  barred  doors  for  me ! 
For  I  myself  must  judge  and  choose  and  dare, 
And  from  my  soul 's  horizon  must  I  see, 
Which  broadens  as  I  climb  that  Jacob 's  stair, 
And  slowly  drops  what  closed  the  wider  view 
Where  good  is  good  forever,  old,  or  new. 


A  NOBLE  LORD  SET  SAIL 

A  noble  lord  set  sail  in  castle  fine, 

His  needless  wealth  impartial  seas  to  freight  j 

His  ship  excels  the  purple  aureate 

Of  Cleopatra's  barge.     For  him  the  wine 

"With  Autumn  tints,  for  him  on  sweets  to  dine  t 

Yet  what  is  he,  and  why  this  costly  state  1 

Or  in  his  veins  does  ichor  circulate — 

Olympic  breed? — *Hhe  people"  less  divine? 

Why  still  the  myth,  when  women  on  the  street 
Sing  for  a  crust,  and  hopeless  children  hold 
Wan  babes  at  night  outside  the  public's  door? 
On  pauper-pay  men  drink  for  lack  of  meat. 
What  sweet  green  fields  this  sadly  squandered 

gold 
Would  buy — sea-fares  and  home  lands  for  the 

poor! 


90 


DISCORDIA 

Some  slight  imagined  wrong  to  discord  led, 
And  baby  storms  obscure  the  April  skies ; 
Their  house  of  blocks  all  widely  scattered  lies. 
At  angry  words  she  shook  with  sobs  to  bed, 
Till  winds  of  sleep  caressed  her  curly  head, 
And  left  the  dew  on  silken  fringe  of  eyes 
And  rosy  cheek,  and  soothed  the  sobs  that  rise. 
To  warm  forgetfulness.     A  frown  o'erspread 
His  boyish  face,  his  chubby  fist  held  tight. 
Till  sleep  relaxed.     But  with  the  robin's  call 
Will  kisses  come  and  thrall  of  loving  arms. 
And  could  we  see  the  cause  as  childish  quite 
That  leads  to  war  when  men  and  nations  fall, 
The  hands  would   clasp  that  beat  the  dread 
alarms. 


91 


FROM  MY  WINDOW 

The  twilight  hastens,  daylight's  glaring  fire 
Fades  rosy  amber,  palest  olive  sheen. 
Beneath  a  blue-white  mist  there  lies  serene 
The  shrouded  city,  save  a  black 'ning  spire. 
A  shy  new  moon,  first  of  the  evening  choir, 
Peeps  through  the  tree-tops  where  is  dimly  seen 
No  leaf  nor  twig,  but  blurs  of  dusky  green. 
What  lies  enchanted  I  would  not  inquire 
Of  city's  dirt  and  detail  hard  and  bare; 
No  need.    Far  rather  would  I  hope  I  may, 
Amid  to-morrow's  toil,  find  time  to  spare 
Some  thought  for  this  perspective,  that  the  day 
Take  such  dimension  as  should  be  its  share 
When  final  twilight  fades  into  the  gray. 


92 


THE  POET'S  LAMP 

Past  jars  of  ^old  and  sea-green  malachite 

Which  scented  blooms  and  luscious  fruits  dis- 
close, 

Still  turning  not,  for  they  are  dust,  he  goes 

To  find  the  rusty  lamp,  and  makes  it  bright. 

When  lo!  what  castles,  arched  and  pillared 
white, 

Sunlit  with  yellow  lights,  festooned  in  rose ! 

What  gardens  of  Hesperides  unclose ! 

What  hillsides  pastoral,  what  pathways  dight 

With  flora  lead  to  seas  of  lazuli. 

To  purple  peaks,  snow-crowned,  to  fairy  dales! 

What  company  of  regal  guests,  with  flow 

And  lilt  of  thought,  like  winds  that  scud  the 
sails ! 

A  prince  indeed!     Yet  sordid  passer-by 

Will  smile  at  faded  coat  and  rank  him  low. 


93 


TO  KEATS 

Long  rows  of  dreary  books  that  stop  and  dry 
The  springs  of  fancy,  till  I  open  thine ! 
Then  are  my  senses  gladdened  with  a  line ; 
Like  one  who,  weary  of  the  streets,  should  spy, 
At  dusty  turn,  between  the  buildings  high, 
A  little  path  that  leads  him,  serpentine, 
Across  a  hill  of  buttercups  a-shine 
And  laughing  'gainst  a  sky  of  lazuli. 
Or  one  o'er  lava  beds  and  steep  inclines, 
Some  barren  ridge  should  scale,  and  see  below, 
All  lying  white  amid  the  trees  and  vines, 
Where  fragrant  orange  and  magnolia  blow, 
A  fairy  town,  and  happy  hither  go 
For  cooling  fruits  and  shade  and  sunset  wines. 


94 


TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 

Exhilarating  light — my  pay  for  toil, 
No  muddy,  tangled  ways,  unlit  with  fire; 
From  thee  a  thrill  as  by  electric  wire 
Which  lights  the  brain  from  glow  of  subtle  coil; 
Transcends,  as  after  rain  the  dark  turmoil 
Of  clouds  is  broken,  spilling  out  the  sun, 
Along  their  edges  gleaming  borders  run, 
The  dripping  trees  are  limned  in  silver  foil, 
In  fresh-cooled  air,  the  dazzling  rays  convey 
To  leaves  and  grass  their  points  of  burning 

white. 
Thy  metaphors  reveal  and  flash  the  way; 
Thy  bracing  view  is  not  from  mountain  height, 
But  voyager  in  air  to  whose  survey 
Lies  all  the  earth  in  panoramic  light. 


95 


TO  SHAKESPEARE 

Immortal  drama  of  the  changeless  age 
Of  elemental  man !     Still  Brutus  speaks ; 
Still  vain  are  Lear's  weak  tears;  Cordelia  seeks 
Response  from  alien  souls ;  and  Hamlets  rage 
With  problems  yet  unsolved.     The  heritage 
Of  time — the  hates  and  loves,  the  hopes  and 

fears — 
Can  change  in  trappings  only,  with  the  years ; 
And  all  the  world  for  aye  shall  be  thy  stage. 
And  through  it  all  the  sweet  and  matchless 

tone — 
The  poet 's  voice — known  by  a  note  let  fall ! 
Like  some  dear  friend  whose  precious  meaning 

shone 
In  cadenced  mood,  as  clear  as  robin's  call; 
And  should  I  hear  one  word  upon  the  stair, 
Before  he  touch  the  latch,  I  know  who 's  there. 


96 


THE  UNREMEMBERED  BARDS 

How  brown  and  dusty  are  the  unturned  leaves, 
And  dust  the  hearts  that  did  the  pens  inspire 
With  unforeshortened  truth!     An  ashen  pyre 
From  which  no  wings  arise !     Yet  one  perceives 
A  living  spark,  some  mighty  bard  retrieves 
To  light  his  holocaust,  his  scented  fire; 
Arising  thence  a  lark  whose  throated  lyre 
The  singing  stars  of  sweetest  song  bereaves. 

A  tear  for  those  whom  ruthless  Time  repressed ! 
Sure-footed,  he,  and  over  each  crevasse 
He  steps  to  solid  ground,  and  only  they 
Who  stepped  with  him  may  with  the  Present 

breast — 
A  striding  gait.    And  who  are  they,  alas ! 
Who  yet  may  drop  to  darkness  by  the  way  ? 


97 


WITHIN  A  MOUNTAIN  VALLEY 

Within  a  mountain  valley  dwelt  secure 
A  lad  who  questioned  not,  still  loving  home ; 
His  world  was  bounded  by  the  snowy  dome 
Of  circling  peaks — his  narrow  faith  so  sure 
They  met  the  sky — ^nor  any  hint  nor  lure 
Of  aught  beyond.     No  budding  wish  to  roam 
Had  burst  the  sweet  content:    he  never  clomb 
Above  the  fields  which  homely  joys  insure. 

But  one  came  running  swift  in  streamers 
dressed, 

With  flying  hair  and  radiant  ecstasy : 

''There  is  a  world  beyond!  Come,  come  with 
me!'' 

They  crossed  the  hills ;  they  reached  the  moun- 
tain crest, — 

When  lo !  there  lay  the  world  in  verity. 

One  turn,  a  tear  for  home,  then  on  they  pressed. 


98 


THE  SPIDER 

A  wily  spider  wove  his  web  last  night 
From  out  my  window  to  a  bending  spray 
Enwreathed  in  blossoms,  pink  as  dawning  day, 
'Twas  sure  a  deep  abyss  for  him  that  height 
To  span,  that  he  might  catch  my  sweet  delight 
Of  hawthorn  flowers,  clustered  in  bouquet, 
To  hold  his  fairy  lace,  his  fine  array 
Of  handiwork,  with  one  drawn  thread  so  slight. 
A  step  to  earth,  but  he 's  so  small,  'twould  seem 
A  daring  feat,  a  distance  dire  and  grim. 
And  me  ?     When  in  aspiring  mood  I  dream 
And  stretch  a  thought  to  some  far  star  so  dim, 
Perchance  it  is  as  near  in  God's  esteem, — 
Perhaps  to  me  when  I  shall  grow  like  Him. 


99 


I  OPEN  DOORS  AND  DOORS 

1  open  doors  and  doors,  and  pass  on  through 
Dark  rooms  where,  stumbling  oft,  I  grope  for 

light; 
Or  rooms,  the  moon  makes  white,  or  sunbeams 

bright, 
"With  drift  of  perfume  on  sweet  winds  that  blew 
O  'er  blooming  meadows  freshly  cooled  with  dew, 
And  murmurous  of  birds  beyond  my  sight ; 
Dream  passages ;  from  openings  out  of  view 
Cool  winds  blow  in ;  wild,  slanting  rain  at  night, 
Frantic  with  storm,  and  angry  brush  of  trees 
Against  the  panes ;  or  mocking  shadows,  strange, 
From  some  too  glorious  light,  wave  with  the 

breeze. 
Not  hurriedly,  from  room  to  room  for  change, 
But  loitering,  from  pictured  hints  to  know 
The  open,  when  from  out  I  pass  and  go. 


100 


IMMORTALITAS 

I  saw  her  stand  with  deep  untroubled  eyes, 
No  mist  before  them,  nor  a  tear  she  shed 
For  all  the  loved  and  unremembered  dead. 
A  Venus,  she,  but  cold  as  stars  that  rise 
O'er  Arctic  seas,  locked  white  'neath  ebon  skies. 
She  did  not  bend,  nor  even  turn  her  head, 
And  icy-keen  she  cut  the  words  she  said, 
Nor  cared  the  pang  they  gave,  nor  heard  the 
sighs. 

iCame  one  so  young  and  held  his  scanty  siheaves — 

So  pitifully  small, — who  plead  his  youth; 

* '  What  have  you  brought  ? ' '     She  said  no  more, 

alas! 
Came  crippled  hopes,  and  they  who  brought  but 

leaves, 
Came  laden  arms  with  wealth  of  golden  truth, — 
To  all  she  said  the  same,  and  bade  them  pass. 


101 


THE  VOYAGER 

So  calmly  fared  he  on  the  water- ways; 

His  painted  prow  he  turned  to  ports  he  knew, 

In  palmy  isles  whose  sands  were  washed  with 

blue; 
And  on  their  shingle  beached  his  ship  for  days, 
For  wines  and  luscious  figs,  and  heard  the  lays 
Of  bards  who  sang  the  things  he  deemed  were 

true; 
And  at  all  altars  paid  his  righteous  due ; 
Then  voyaged  on  to  other  pleasant  bays. 
There  came  a  change:    "What  this  wild  wind 

that  blows 
And  bears  me  out?     Who  that  strange  mask 

that  steers? 
Will  he  abide  the  deck  in  unknown  sea? 
Is  he  a  god  ?    For  when  he  moves  there  glows 
A  splendour,  gilding  waves.    I  have  my  fears. 
Is  he  still  I?    Dare  I  to  call  him  me?'* 


102 


WOULD  I  RETURN? 

How  sweet,  how  fond,  how  far,  that  azure  bay, 
Its  circling  shores  all  there  within  my  sight! 
I'rom  port  to  port  I  sailed  with  fresh  delight, 
Nor  had  a  fear  when  all  the  time  was  day, 
And  all  the  months  were  years  of  merry  May, 
When  Flora  reigned,  rose-wreathed,  who  sprin- 
kled white 
The  shores  with  star  anemones,  and  bright 
Were  river  margins  banked  with  bloom,  and  gay 
And  honey  sweet  were  field  and  wood  and  glen. 
How  sweet  and  undisturbed  my  world  to  me ! 
Yet  to  pass  out  the  strait,  how  I  did  yearn! 
I  passed;  and  met  the  storm  and  night,  and 

then — 
The  vision  glimmered,  slipt,  and  all  was  sea, 
And  sea.     Would  I  return?  I  ask.    Return? 


103 


THE  OVER-PLUS 

Does   he   but   deal   in   names    (whose   narrow 

thought 
He  vouches  for  the  truth)  who  says  that  we 
Are  cells  and  atoms,  strung  so  cunningly 
To  some  electric  coil,  too  subtly  wrought 
For  any  tool  that  Science  yet  has  brought, — 
Yet  still  might  bring  in  ages  yet  to  be  ? 
Though  granting  much,  there  yet  remains  for 

me 
The  over-plus,  not  common,  he  makes  naught. 
What  is  that  looker-on  to  whom  arise 
The  moons  of  memory  and  all  to  view 
Stand  out:    the  peaks  and  hills  and  boundless 

skies. 
The  purple  sea,  the  isles  of  yesterday ; 
Who  stands  aloof  and  judges,  makes  anew, 
Commands  the  under-selves  and  points  the  way  ? 


UHk 


TWILIGHT 

The  purple  browns  of  evening  blur  the  green; 
No  breeze  nor  breath ;  and  all  the  river  lies 
In  quietude  of  death ;  with  close  shut  eyes 
The  painted  flora  swoon  in  sleep  serene, 
Nor  nod  their  heads ;  and  farther  out  between 
The  feathered  shade  and  shore,  the  golden  skies 
Lie  on  the  stream  in  dreams  of  Paradise. 
The  trees  dip  deep  into  the  glassy  sheen ; 
'Mid  shade,  to  right,  the  gleams  are  lost  in 

glooms ; 
But  on  beyond  there  turns  to  thread  the  glade 
A  cord  of  light ;  and  farther  still,  up-looms, 
Between  the  mist-hung  trees,  a  vista  laid 
In  lines  of  white  as  blended  daisy  blooms, — 
There  fairies  dance  and  flowers  never  fade. 


105 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DEAR  FRIENDS 

Another,  and  another,  still  they  pass, 
Like  falling  leaves,  till  all  the  tree  is  bare; 
The  birds  that  sang  are  mating  otherwhere 
On  branches  green  as  early  Summer  grass 
For  sweet  young  hopes, — and  yet,  for  them, 


Shall  come  the  Winter,  sear  beyond  repair, 
Yea,  sear,  although  they  say  the  sky  is  fair 
Through   twisted   warp    and   gnarl   of   Time's 

harass. 
Ah,  sad !  that  on  Death 's  narrow  unlit  stairs, 
No  hand  can  help,  we  cannot  go  in  pairs ; 
But  at  the  foot,  or  top  (to  say,  who  dares?) 
We  sleep  together,  or  unfolds  the  day 
When  veils  are  lifted,  then,  ah !  then,  we  may — 
But  hush,  press  on,  brush  tears  and  prayers 

away! 


106 


THE  QUEST 

I  met  two  running  in  a  strange  wild  race: 
A  phantom  was  the  foremost,  and  so  fair, 
On  sunbeams  treading ;  gold  was  all  her  hair. 
And,  like  the  dead  in  dreams,  so  faint  her  face 
As  swift  as  wind  she  swept  an  airy  pace, 
Her  misty  robes  like  smoke  upon  the  air. 
I  stopped  her  follower,  whose  charmed  stare 
Saw  naught  but  her,  and  held  him  for  a  space : 
''0  why,  and  whither?"  He  then.  Sibylline: 
**She  never  turns,  but  to  the  sun  is  faced." 
*'But  look  behind;  see,  all  the  April  green 
Is   brown;    and   crumbling   stone   and   barren 

waste ! ' ' 
"Yea,  in  thy  shadow,  so."  With  frantic  mien 
He  broke  from  me,  and  ran  with  bending  haste. 


107 


A  HAUNTING  VISION 

A  haunting  vision  all  the  day  withdrew 
To  shadowland,  as  falls  but  transiently, 
Through  rifted  cloud  a  splendour  on  the  sea ; 
Or  frescoes  faint  and  broken  to  the  view, 
Whose  bits  of  wind-blown  robes  and  gold  and 

blue 
Suggest  the  sky  and  aureoles,  though  flee 
Beyond  pursuit  the  theme  and  rhapsody; 
Or  passing  as  the  mirrored  sun  in  dew; 
Or  stars  that  twinkle  in  the  tossing  deep 
Are  lost  in  cloud  eclipse;  remembered  song 
That  wanes  to  head  a-tilt  for  faintest  note. 
When  lo !  it  comes  to  some  wrapt  mood  I  keep, 
As  chimes  that  seem  to  wait,  then  far  along 
The  waving  fields  full  sweet  and  clear  they  float. 


108 


THE  LILT 

As  one  who  at  tlie  opera,  'mid  stress 
And  thunder  of  the  fugue,  all  torn  with  pain 
And  harrowed  to  the  depths,  awaits  the  strain, 
The  melody,  that  with  its  sweet  excess 
Floods  all  the  soul  with  restful  mellowness. 
Like  in  a  bay,  and  o'er  the  auburn  plain. 
Full  swells  the  spring-tide  from  the  heaving 

main. 
And  lies  in  pools  to  catch  the  sun's  caress; 
So  in  some  souls,  through  pain  and  unshed  tear, 
The  wrapt,  the  listening  look,  the  smile,  betrays 
The  swan's  recurring  song,  and  hope  through 

fear 
To  catch  the  lilt  through  storm  and  devious 

ways. 
Though  changed  in  key,  yet  ever  fresh  and  clear. 
The  same  through  aching  time  and  long  delays. 


109 


OPEN  WINDOWS 

Open  the  windows,  0  my  soul!  ajar 
To  breeze-borne  melodies  and  fragrant  June, 
To  storm  and  starry  night  and  sultry  noon ; 
And  send  on  fearless  wing  thy  spirit  far, 
Wind-swept  o  'er  beetling  crags  the  wild  waves 

mar, 
With  mist  and  spray  and  surge  of  seas  atune, 
Past  far  pink  dawns,  to  float  on  some  monsoon 
To  tideless  calms  where  Summer  islands  are, 
And  'broidered  meads  are  starred  with  asphodel, 
And  sweet  with  song  unheard  of  mortal  man. 
And  marble  cliffs  the  bluest  bays  enlock, 
To  that  closed  garden  where  the  gods  may  dwell, 
To  thither  bring  some  twig  for  talisman, 
When  at  the  gates  at  night  I  stand  and  knock. 


110 


MEMORY 

Short  is  the  road  unto  the  land  of  dreams, 
"Where  once  I  gathered  blossoms  all  the  day, 
For  all  the  early  lanes  were  sweet  with  May, 
All  flower-bordered,  sprinkled  o  'er  with  gleams 
That  burnished  leaves  and  glanced  upon  the 

streams. 
And  her  dear  hand  in  mine  but  yesterday ! 
And  though  so  many  miles  o'ergone  away — 
A  weary  road,  so  desolate  it  seems — 
The  memory  is  fresh  when  I  am  worn; 
As  in  the  arid  wastes  of  alkali. 
Where  withered  weeds  are  choked  with  salt, 

and  lorn. 
On  shapeless  mounds  of  sand  whose  edges  fly 
With  whirling  winds,  blooms  sweet,  on  prickly 

thorn, 
The  cactus,  silken,  red  as  evening  sky. 


Ill 


MY  CHILDHOOD  HOME 

Through  many  wanderings  I  chanced  again 

To  see  my  dear  old  home  of  long  ago ; 

Sweet  Nature  was  the  same,  nor  marked  the 

flow 
Of  ebbing  time :  the  river,  just  as  then. 
With  sleepy  curves,  the  cool  and  leafy  glen, 
The  bridge,  the  path,  where  I  was  wont  to  go, 
All  bordered  still  with  golden-rod  aglow, 
Where  sing  the  same  the  robin  and  the  wren. 
But  ah,  the  home,  how  sadly,  sadly  changed ! 
The  fragrant  fields,  the  orchard,  verdant  lawn 
And  lane — all  lost  in  a  disfigurement, 
A  checker-board  of  streets  and  houses  'ranged 
As  if  the  earth  were  scant  to  live  upon, 
And  man  forgetful  and  irreverent. 


112 


DEATH 

There  is  a  deep  whose  black  and  dire  abyss 
Brings  awful  pause  to  him  who  fears  to  sink, 
For  on  its  void  no  lights  nor  ripples  wink ; 
He  steps  as  one  from  off  a  precipice, 
Astray  at  night ;  but  this  he  may  not  miss : 
The  road  is  straight  unto  the  very  brink 
Which  holds  him  there,  nor  may  he  move  nor 

shrink. 
As  one  in  dreams,  though  chased  by  Nemesis, 
Is  paralyzed.     Behind,  into  the  night, 
The  yesterdays  have  passed  in  dark  retreat ; 
The  happy  earth  and  all  his  human  kind 
Are  shut  from  him,  as  one  on  darkened  street 
Should  see  a  drama  in  a  window  light, 
And  one  should  rise  within  and  pull  the  blind. 


113 


TO  THE  SKYLARKS 

Where  scarlet  poppies  shimmer  in  the  wheat, 
And  flaunt  their  frills  amidst  the  spangled  oats, 
Their  gauzy,  silken,  fluted  petticoats 
All  fluttering  like  torches  in  the  street; 
There  all  the  sky  with  ecstacies  replete. 
Is  gemmed  with  starry  music  from  your  throats, 
With  bright  cadenzas  on  the  catching  notes. 
So  gossamer,  so  sparkling,  and  so  sweet. 
With  tiny  facets  of  a  thousand  lights, 
And  steady  flow  of  pleasure  ever  new. 
Unstudied  joy,  as  one  who  hums  and  wings 
A  happy  tune  with  little  turns  and  flights. 
The  whole  day  long,  at  work  he  likes  to  do. 
And  never  tires,  nor  scarcely  knows  he  sings. 


114 


FATE 

**An  unfair  game"  —  was  that  you  said,  old 

man? 
Your  head  bent  low  upon  the  ehecker-board, 
With  eye  a-squint  and  forehead  deeply  scored, 
You  blame  the  sly  One ;  but  he  has  no  plan 
To  get  you  cornered,  though  his  mind  fore-ran 
Your  empty  moves.     Your  fret  and  fume  ig- 
nored, 
He  smokes  his  pipe  and  smiles  that  you  are 

bored, 
And  toasts  himself  at  ease ;  nor  need  he  scan 
The  board,  for  none  can  cheat.  And  ah !  he  plays 
A  winning  game  with  any  one  whose  nose 
Is  on  the  board ;  and  patient,  he,  to  wait. 
His  move  is  always  first,  and  this  essays 
To  handicap  the  weak, — but  there  are  those 
Who  do  not  lay  their  own  mistakes  on  Fate. 


115 


MICHAEL  MORE 

Part  I 
In  days  ago  there  was  a  man 

Who  had  a  farm  to  plough ; 
So  straight  the  furrows  always  ran, 

So  clean  the  weeded  field, 
Such  heavy  grain  he  made  it  yield 

The  ears  were  forced  to  bow. 

He  had  a  rose-embowered  cot, 

Amid  a  garden  gay 
With  lily,  pink,  forget-me-not, 

With  jessamine,  and  more, — 
And  Mary  standing  at  the  door, 

A  sweeter  bloom  than  they. 

Her  voice  was  clear  as  meadow  lark 
That  shakes  the  dew  and  sings, 

In  hazel  eye  an  amber  spark, 
Her  cheeks  as  pink  as  dawn, 

Her  hair  like  leaves  upon  the  lawn 
That  golden  Autumn  flings. 

'Twas  in  the  sun  an  aureole 

About  her  brow  of  snow. 
Though  clean  as  mountain  heights  her  soul, 

She  loved  the  joyous  earth. 
With  lofty  thought  and  dancing  mirth 

She  pleased  the  high  and  low. 

And  he  was  straight  and  strong  and  tall, 

With  ruddy  apple  cheek. 
He  was  the  pick  of  ploughmen  all, 

Whose  name  was  Michael  More. 
And  none  could  match  him  though  a  score 

Were  sent  abroad  to  seek. 


116 


But  he  went  hunting  on  a  day 
When  Spring  was  very  new. 

Loud  sang  the  birds  on  every  spray, 
Where  haze  of  yellow  green 

Had  not  yet  made  a  leafy  screen 
To  shut  the  sky  from  view. 

So  merry  rang  the  woods  and  brooks, 
He  tripped  a  tune  in  trills. 

Though  Winter  lay  in  shady  nooks, 
Still  whiter  was  the  sloe. 

On  tender  meads  there  was  a  glow 
Of  yellow  daffodils. 

Deep  in  the  wood  he  drew  the  bow 

With  lusty,  joyous  zeal, 
With  hope  to  have  a  bag  to  show 

That  she  would  like  to  cook, 
While  resting  in  the  ingle-nook 

He'd  wait  the  toothsome  meal. 

Came  riding  by  a  lazy  knight. 

Astride  a  dapper  bay. 
His  scarlet  coat  ablaze  with  light. 

His  steed  arrayed  in  gold, 
And  stepping  high  with  metal  bold, 

He  spurned  the  bridle-way. 

And  with  him  rode  his  gentlemen, 

In  single  file  they  keep; 
And  when  he  reached  a  fairy  glen. 

So  quick  he  reined  his  bay, 
That,  riding  swiftly,  scarce  kept  they 

From  running  in  a  heap. 


117 


There,  out  beyond,  between  the  trees, 

They  saw  a  forest  lawn. 
A  rustle  of  the  fallen  leaves — 

Swift  sped  across  the  glade, 
In  hope  of  finding  friendly  shade, 

A  doe  and  dappled  fawn. 

'Twas  then  the  lord  did  send  a  shaft, 

But  missed  his  trembling  aim. 
And  all  the  host  in  secret  laughed. 

To  each  uproUed  their  eyes: 
"When  wassailer  to  forest  hies. 

His  bags  will  lack  the  game." 

Straight  sped  a  dart  as  homing  bee. 

As  falling  stone,  a  deer 
Fell  to  the  grass.     The  company 

Cheered  loud,  while  all  the  hounds 
Went  scurrying,  and  all  the  wood  resounds 

Unto  the  merry  cheer. 

**Who  is  the  dolt?'*  the  prince  demands, 
"Who  sped  the  shaft?"  says  he. 

"This  is  my  wood  and  these  my  lands, 
And  they  who  dare  me  find 

I  am  of  firm,  unshaking  mind, 
And  of  no  charity." 

Out  came  the  ploughman  very  bold: 

"I  am  your  man,"   says  he, 
"Your  hounds  may  fetch  the  arrows  cold. 

But  mine  bring  back  the  game. 
A  challenge  to  each  man  I  claim. 

That  he  shall  rival  me." 


118 


They  set  a  mark  upon  a  tree, 
And  still  the  ploughman  won, 

For  none  could  aim  so  well  as  he. 
He  won  the  prince  as  well. 

His  skill  and  boldness  held  a  spell 
Upon  them,  every  one. 

They  made  a  feast  upon  the  grass, 

A  snowy  cloth  they  spread; 
They  ate  the  deer  and  clinked  the  glass. 

And  drank  the  ruddy  wine. 
To  louder  talk  they  did  incline, 

Till  every  face  was  red. 

And  when  the  sun  was  very  low. 

And  threw  a  longer  shade, 
It  limned  the  trees  in  yellow  glow, 

And  dark  their  shadows,  cold. 
To  giants  stretched.     In  green  and  gold 

Was  striped  the  forest  glade. 

Then  each  his  horse  he  quick  untied 

And  in  the  saddle  leapt. 
The  prince  the  ploughman  bade  to  ride 

Behind  him  on  his  horse. 
Then   laughed  they  all  without  remorse, 

When  up  he  sprang,  adept. 

Their  drunken  laughter  shook  the  wood. 

At  such  a  wanton  deed. 
'*0h,  mud  and  gold!     Oh,  very  good!'' 

The  ploughman  joined  with  zest. 
Each  bent  with  mirth,  as  if  possessed. 

And  slapped  his  shining  steed. 


119 


Then  was  there  such  a  scampering, 

And  tearing  up  of  grass, 
And  starting  off  a-galloping. 

The  forest  quick  they  cleared. 
The  startled  woodmen,  who  appeared, 

Jumped  back  to  let  them  pass. 

And  out  upon  the  road  they  tore, 

And  raised  a  cloud  of  dust, 
Till  none  could  tell  what  crest  they  bore, — 

A  whirlwind  in  a  blast, — 
''Hooray"  and  *'whee!" — as  on  they  passed. 

With  songs  of  wanton  lust. 

And  when  they  reached  the  castle  gate, 

The  West  a-flaming  bright. 
Had  reddened  windows  and  the  plate 

Of  armoured  sentries  all. 
And  e'en  the  cold  and  greyish  wall 

Had  caught  a  ruddy  light. 

Then  in  they  went, — ah  woe  the  day! 

When  went  the  ploughman  too. 
Who  changed  his  coat  for  bright  array 

Of  crimson  velvet  fold. 
With  powdered  flora  wrought  in  gold 

And  gems  of  every  hue. 

With  awkward  gait  he  moves  in  line 

With  men  of  high  degree, 
And  with  them  seats  himself  to  dine 

On  plate  of  shining  gold, 
On  costly  cloth  that  falls  in  fold 

Of  stiff  emblazonry. 


120 


The  pillared  hall  of  marble  white, 

The  rows  of  lamps  ashine, 
Repeated  in  the  mirrors  bright, 

To  mimic  halls  extend, 
Where  stretching  far  without  an  end, 

At  phantom  boards  they  dine. 

And  at  them  all  the  ladies,  fair, 

In  spangles  and  brocade, 
With  rounded  arms  and  jewelled  hair, 

Were  smiling  at  the  knights, 
And  clinking  high  with  ruddy  lights 

The  goblets  richly  made. 

The  spicy  perfumes,  rich  and  sweet, 

With  Araby  compare. 
There  floated,  too,  from  some  retreat, 

A  dulcet  melody, 
To  linked  chords  a  harmony 

That  honeyed  all  the  air. 

Ah !  dizzy  was  his  head  that  night, 

And  many  nights  to  be. 
With  all  the  wine  and  glitter  bright, 

Till  years  had  brought  him  grace. 
With  manners  fit  to  hold  his  place 

In  such  a  company. 

A  painful  thought  he  still  would  hide, 

Of  Mary,  Mary  More, 
Nor  told  to  one  he  had  a  bride. 

For  fear  of  foolish  smile. 
He  led  a  life  that  did  beguile 

His  heart  from  days  of  yore. 


121 


For  best  of  all  he  won  the  king 

Who  held  the  golden  key 
To  all  that  fame  and  money  bring 

To  fill  him  -with  delight ; 
And  he  was  dubbed  a  noble  knight 

For  deeds  in  archery. 

So  swiftly  flew  the  many  years, 

Ah!  quickly  by  they  sped, 
And  with  their  sure  and  sharpened  shears 

They  clipped  his  youth  away,  / 
And  left  him  stumbling,  pussy,  grey, 

With  nose  a  cherry  red. 

Part  II. 
But  what  of  Mary,  with  the  years 

That  dragged  themselves  away. 
With  waiting  long,  and  many  tears, 

While  others  reaped  the  grain ; 
With  hope  and  doubt  contending  vain 

That  he  would  come  some  day? 

She  sewed  by  day  and  in  the  night 

For  ladies  rich  and  fair; 
And  in  the  dawning  early  light 

She  brought  it  home  to  do, 
For  should  her  loving  hope  come  true 

He  still  must  find  her  there. 

And  every  day,  at  fading  light, 

She  lit  her  candle  trim, 
And  kept  it  burning  all  the  night 

Upon  the  window  sill. 
That  he  might  see  it  was  her  will 

To  sweetly  welcome  him. 

122 


And  when  her  garden  was  in  bloom, 

It  lit  with  yellow  gleams 
The  lilies  sleeping  in  the  gloom, 

And  flowers  dainty-hued 
Whose  colours  change  at  night,  subdued 

To  grey  and  white  of  dreams. 

And  when  the  snow  lay  cold  and  white. 

And  hid  the  travelled  road, 
It  threw  a  friendly  beacon  light 

For  those  who  came  from  far, 
And  beckoned  home  as  did  the  star 

That  o'er  the  manger  glowed. 

Within  was  warm  and  mellow  glow, 

The  hearth  was  all  ablaze ; 
The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row; 

The  cider  mug  she  filled; 
Then  at  the  window,  sad  and  chilled, 

She  stood  to  gaze  and  gaze. 

Before  her  stretched  into  the  night 

A  waste  of  blue-white  snow. 
No  hint  of  moon  nor  starry  light. 

For,  black  across  the  sky. 
The  torn  and  ragged  clouds  swept  by. 

For  bitter  winds  did  blow. 

They  drove  the  snow  in  blinding  sheet. 
They  pinched  the  traveler's  nose, 

They  numbed  the  hands  and  froze  the  feet. 
From  frosty  window  pane 

She  cleared  a  space,  and  oft  again, 
For  with  her  breath  it  froze. 


123 


Oh !  who  is  that  with  bending  gait 
To  shield  him  from  the  blast? 

He  may  be  coming  though  'tis  late; 
He  draws  his  mantle  tight 

And  bows  his  head  to  'scape  the  blight. 
But  no !  he  turned  and  passed. 

With  trembling  lip  and  tearful  eye 

She  sadly  shook  her  head. — 
The  apples  all  were  burnt  and  dry; 

The  supper  meal  was  cold. 
An  icy  bell  the  morrow  told ; 

And  cold  she  crept  to  bed. 

And  when  the  merry  yuletide  came, 

A  pretty  feast  she  made : 
She  twined  the  holly  round  the  frame 

That  held  his  pictured  face ; 
And  on  his  chair  in  wonted  place, 

A  present  for  him  laid. 

And  then  she  waited  long  in  vain 

For  step  that  never  came, 
With  wish  that  was  an  aching  pain 

The  lifted  latch  to  hear, 
His  merry  voice,  so  full  of  cheer. 

She  never  thought  of  blame. 

And  so  the  years  went  slowly  by. 

And  busy  years  were  they. 
For  otherwise  she  needs  must  die, 

She  was  so  sad  and  lorn. 
But  in  her  heart  a  purpose  born 

Did  fill  the  night  and  day. 


124 


The  years  crept  by  and  she  grew  old, 
And   dwarfish,   humped,   and  bent. 

Her  snowy  hair  she  tightly  rolled 
Into  a  scanty  knot. 

Her  outward  mien  she  quite  forgot — 
The  shriveled  tenement. 

On  wrinkled  face  there  was  inscrolled 

The  riddle  of  the  years. 
But  few  could  see  the  curves  that  told 

A  garden  sweet  and  trim, 
A  plot  of  bloom  she  kept  for  him 

And  watered  with  her  tears. 

Her  sunken  eyes  were  almost  blind 

From  sewing  long  and  late. 
She  used  a  stick  her  way  to  find: 

The  neighbours  knew  the  sound, 
And  by  the  rap  upon  the  ground 

They  knew  she  passed  their  gate. 

She  too  would  haggle  at  a  mite, 

She  lived  so  sparingly. 
To  save  and  hoard  was  her  delight 

For  him  she  loved  so  well. 
And  since  no  mortal  would  she  tell, 

They  called  her  miserly. 

In  many  letters  much  she  said 

For  him,  and  only  him, 
That  should  he  come  and  find  her  dead, 

He  still  should  find  her  true; 
And  hard  it  was  to  write  them,  too. 

When  ageing  eyes  were  dim. 


125 


The  pity  first  that  softened  eyes 
And  warmed  the  hands  grew  chill. 

They  answered  her  with  sharp  replies, 
And  called  her  ''stingy  crone." 

But  children  lisped  in  sweeter  tone, 
And  called  her  "granny"  still. 

For  them  she  had  a  tender  heart, 

So  unsuspicious  they. 
A  subtle  instinct  did  impart 

The  sweetness  of  her  mind 
To  little  cherubs  not  yet  blind 

With  doubts  that  darken  day. 

Part  III. 
And  Michael, — what  had  come  to  him? 

A  thirst  he  could  not  slake, 
And  spectral  things  with  visage  grim 

Would  haunt  his  troubled  sleep, 
The  long,  long  night  their  vigil  keep 

To  pinch  his  soul  awake. 

A  skeleton  with  wings  of  bat. 

Begrimed  and  sooty  black. 
Swooped  down  and  by  him  sat, — 

An  eyeless,  grinning  ape. 
Two  shining  rows  of  teeth  agape. 

And  all  its  joints  did  crack. 

It  knocked  its  knees  like  rap  of  sticks. 

As  fork  with  bending  prongs, 
Extended  arm  and  fingers  fix 

Upon  his  heart  a  clamp, 
And  on  his  forehead  came  the  damp 

That  to  the  grave  belongs. 

126 


It  bent  and  whistled,  "Come  with  me/' 

All  trembling  he  obeyed, 
And  with  it  flew  in  agony 

Into  a  strange  green  light. 
The  black  earth,  wrapped  in  gloom  of  night, 

A  pall  upon  him  laid. 

Swiftly,  so  close  to  earth  they  flit, 
The  shadowed  trees  they  graze, 

And,  gliding  up  a  hill  with  it, 
To  pause,  it  gave  a  tap ; 

A  whining  wind  his  garments  flap, 
As  from  a  cliff  they  gaze. 

He  strained  to  see,  when  lo !  behold ! 

The  darkness  lifted  there. 
The  precious  dreams  of  youth  unfold: 

The  fields  of  golden  corn 
That  crimson  poppies  did  adorn. 

As  once  his  Mary's  hair. 

The  smell  of  earth  came  back  again, 

So  fresh  from  upturned  soil. 
The  tender  spears  that  after  rain 

Burst  through  the  softened  earth, — 
Then  in  no  season  was  there  dearth 

Of  joy  in  honest  toil. 

The  pink  embowered  home  in  view ; 

The  fresh  and  fragrant  air; 
And  in  her  garden  every  hue 

Of  all  the  tints  that  are; 
The  bordered  path,  the  gate  ajar. 

And  Mary  standing  there. 


127 


The  sun  upon  her  yellow  hair 

Like  Autumn  maple  trees. 
With  longing,  that  was  half  despair 

And  keen  with  sharp  regret, 
That  he  might  still  possess  her  yet 

He  prayed  on  bended  knees. 

Then,  startled  suddenly,  he  woke 

And  up  he  sat  in  bed; 
A  chilly  sweat  upon  him  broke; 

The  room  was  dark  and  cold. 
The  tower  bell  the  hour  told 

And  many  strokes  it  said. 

A  palsy  shiver  shook  his  frame, 

''I  will  go  home,"  he  said, 
**She  is  so  good,  she  will  not  blame, 

Her  love  for  me  atones." 
He  raised  his  aged  aching  bones 

And  pulled  himself  from  bed. 

Then  hastily  he  dons  his  clothes. 

And  opens  soft  the  door. 
And  feels  his  way  as  out  he  goes 

Along  the  darkened  wall, 
A  deathly  silence  shrouding  all 

Except  a  sleeper's  snore. 

Just  as  he  reached  the  winding  stair, 

He  creaked  a  loosened  board; 
Some  dreamer  called  aloud,  ''Who's  there?" 

And  Michael  feared  to  go, 
But  breathless  waited,  standing  so. 

Until  the  dreamer  snored. 


128 


''Oh !  they  would  laugh,  I  would  not  dare 
To  tell  them,"  thus  he  thought; 

So  crept  all  softly  down  the  stair. 
Beneath  the  parapet, 

Past  narrow  windows  black  as  jet; 
The  sky  was  overwrought. 

The  heavy  clouds  were  black  with  rain 
That  hid  the  full-faced  moon, — 

She  showed  herself  but  once,  in  vain. 
And  lit  with  transient  glow 

The  winding  river  far  below, 
The  houses  all  aswoon. 

On  down  he  went,  and  down, 

Across  the  double  moat, 
Out  through  the  gates  and  quiet  town, 

All  unperceived  he  passed. 
And  then  the  rain  that  had  amassed 

The  ground  in  torrents  smote. 

It  flooded  all  the  country  road; 

It  drenched  him  through  and  through ; 
It  drove  him  with  an  angry  goad. 

Bespattered  him  with  mud. 
As  in  the  road  with  splashing  thud 

He  smirched  his  costly  shoe. 

And  long  he  traveled,  till  a  hill 

Had  reddened  to  a  blaze 
Which  struck  the  earth  with  joyous  thrill, 

And  flooded  her  with  light. 
As  all  the  view  in  gay  delight 

Unfolded  to  his  gaze. 


129 


The  mounting  sun  lit  up  the  trees 

In  tints  of  richest  hue, 
Of  Autumn  shades  in  all  degrees 

Of  russets  manifold, 
Of  crimson,  purple,  yellow-gold, 

Against  a  sky  of  blue. 

The  puddled  earth  held  all  the  sky 

And  mirrored,  too,  the  glare 
Of  maple,  oak,  and  beech  that  vie 

To  flash  a  gaudy  sheen. 
The  holly  fruit  with  shining  green 

Was  scarlet  everywhere. 

And  all  the  birds  had  holiday; 

They  feasted  to  their  fill 
On  cuckoo-pint  and  crimsoned  spray 

Of  clustered  haw  and  hip. 
Belated  bees  the  honey  sip 

From  flowers  blooming  still. 

Lo !  when  he  went  the  hill  adown, 

All  freshly  washed  and  fair 
There  lay  the  little  country  town, 

The  row  of  houses  small. 
Straight  rose  the  smoke  from  chimneys  all 

Into  the  fragrant  air. 

But  what  was  that  that  smote  the  air? 

A  dread  and  direful  knell. 
It  was  no  call  for  early  prayer; 

It  sank  him  hopelessly. 
As  ships  that  sink  within  the  sea, 

That  solitary  bell. 


130 


Oh!  what  is  that  in  mournful  file, 

And  what  is  borne  ahead? 
Adown  the  street,  as  chapel  aisle. 

With  hat  in  hand,  so  slow 
They  step,  they  scarcely  seem  to  go, 

And  wail  as  for  the  dead. 

And  when  the  little  band  he  reached, 
He  asked  them  who  was  dead; 

And  when  they  told  he  then  beseeched 
To  look  upon  her  face. 

''I  am  her  love,  though  in  disgrace; 
Oh!  let  me  see,"  he  said. 

They  smiled  a  little  that  the  crone 

A  love  had  ever  had, — 
So  many  years  she  lived  alone 

They  had  forgot  him  quite; 
And  he  a  mud-bespattered  fright 

In  regal  robe  was  clad. 

But  still  so  pitiful  he  plead, 

They  lifted  up  the  pall; 
He  gazed  and  gazed,  and  then  he  said 

' '  Oh,  no  !  it  is  not  she ! 
There's  some  mistake,  it  cannot  be! 

I  beg  your  pardons,  all." 

A  wrinkled  face  that  naught  redeemed 
Save  peace  that  rested  there ; 

But  how  unlike  the  face  he  dreamed! 
Impression  early  made, 

The  dream  of  youth  that  cannot  fade, 
When  she  was  wondrous  fair. 


131 


He  turned  and  homeward  went; 

The  gate  was  swinging  wide, 
The  air  was  sweet  with  spicy  scent 

Of  herb  and  eglantine ; 
All  coral-strewn  was  hedge  and  vine 

With  fruit  in  scarlet  dyed; 

Against  them  massed  the  yellow  heads 

Of  gay  chrysanthemums; 
In  bronze  and  red  and  golden  beds 

The  regal  asters  flaunt; 
While  honeyed  fruit  is  still  the  haunt 

Where  burnished  insect  hums. 

Along  the  bordered  path  he  went 
Where  reaching  blooms  would  bar, 

Or  saucy  branch  would  fain  prevent. 
And  entered  at  the  door. 

How  very  like  the  days  of  yore 
The  chairs  and  table  are ! 

For  each  was  in  its  place  the  same; 

They  mocked  the  days  between, 
The  flight  of  time  they  would  disclaim, 

And  all  that  intervened 
Was  like  a  drama  that  is  screened 

With  only  shadows  seen. 

For  there  his  desk  against  the  wall 

Was  by  the  window  still. 
Save  for  the  clock  'twas  quiet  all 

(Why  did  it  tick  so  hard? 
It  pulsed  the  silence,  and  it  jarred 

His  nerves  against  his  will.) 


132 


upon  the  hearth  were  sticks  unused 
(The  cold  it  shook  him  so!) 

He  lit,  he  drew  a  chair,  and  mused: 
"Oh,  she  will  come,"  he  said, 

''Oh,  Mary,  you  cannot  be  dead! 
Oh,  you  will  come,  I  know ! ' ' 

He  bends  to  where  the  fire  glows. 

It  lights  his  ashen  face. 
And  turns  to  flame  his  ruddy  nose; 

His  snowy  beard  extends. 
As  frozen  waterfall  depends 

And  still  is  held  in  place. 

A  spectre  shadow  crossed  the  floor, 

And  up  the  wall  it  went, 
A  grave  and  silent  summoner ; 

For  head  a  pick-axe  grim, 
Across  the  ceiling  mocking  him 

It  menacingly  bent. 

A  drowsy  sleep  crept  slowly  on 
When  lo !  she  came  in  white, 

A  glory  as  the  rising  dawn 
Fell  on  her  standing  nigh. 

As  bloom  from  painted  window  high 
Of  softly  tinted  light. 

**Dear  love,"  he  cried,  "I  waited  long. 

Come  to  my  arms,  my  own! 
They  are  no  longer  firm  and  strong, 

But  still  I  love  you,  dear. 
All  other  days  are  thin  and  sere 

Save  those  together  known." 


133 


How  near  she  is,  and  yet  so  far ! 

Long  aeons  are  between. 
She  is  as  distant  as  a  star, 

As  nebulae  her  hair, 
That  youthful  face  is  less  than  air, 

Or  ray  of  sun  unseen. 

All  suddenly,  acold  he  woke. 

An  ashen  hearth  he  spied; 
The  moonbeams  through  the  window  broke 

And  lay  in  pools  of  light. 
As  marshes  when  the  sky  is  white 

And  earth  in  darkness  dyed. 

But  soon  with  clouds  the  moon  was  blind 

And  lost  beyond  repair. 
Then  long  he  groped  about  to  find 

A  candle,  but  in  vain, 
Till  feeling  by  the  window  pane 

He  found  it  standing  there. 

A  sudden  fear  possessed  him  quite 

As  by  his  desk  he  leant. 
For  by  the  flickering  candle  light 

A  bundle  came  to  view. 
Of  many  papers  tied  in  blue, — 

But  what  was  their  intent  ? 

Untying  them,  they  fell  apart, — 
And  some  were  brown  and  old, 

And  some  were  new  and  made  him  start 
As  here  and  there  a  line 

Of  drift  he  scarcely  dared  divine, 
A  story  that  was  told. 


134 


He  read  them  all,  a  story  long, 

Until  the  dawn  was  fair, 
Until  he  heard  the  robin's  song, 

And  folk  were  all  astir, 
And  by  (than  morning  happier) 

The  maidens  tripped  to  prayer. 

He  rose  and  went  where  down  the  file 

Had  gone  at  yester  morn, 
Still  hurt  at  every  passer's  smile. 

He  moved  as  in  a  dream 
"Where  real  and  shadow  mingled  seem, 

Himself  alone  forlorn. 

The  children  were  amused,  amazed. 

Pulling  each  other's  gowns. 
And  those  behind  that  on  him  gazed 

In  giggles  bubbled  o'er, 
While  others  silence  did  implore 

With  little  hints  and  frowns. 

But  when  he  reached  the  church-yard  bare, 

A  little  form  was  bent 
Beside  a  grave  new-made  and  fair 

With  garlands  brightly  decked 
In  many  wreaths  and  colours  flecked. 

And  odours  sweetly  blent. 

He  stepped  to  her  serenely  graced, 

Much  older  than  her  years. 
The  others  all  were  apple-faced, 

But  she  was  pale  and  fair. 
Beseeching  eyes  as  though  in  prayer. 

With  manner  that  endears. 


135 


He  said  to  her :    ' '  I  was  her  love,  *  * 
But  both  were  mystified. 

As  saddened  as  a  mateless  dove 
Her  slender  voice  let  fall  : 

' '  It  was  old  granny, ' '  that  was  all 
The  little  one  replied. 


136 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


JUL  24  1916 


30w-l,'15 


k--'  I     V^'w'V^ 


24159 


